Sticks & Stones (A Hollis Morgan Mystery) (15 page)

They settled into wicker chairs after Hollis turned down her offer of iced tea or any other beverage to her liking.

“So ….?” Summer tilted her head.

“Yes, I understand you’re getting ready
for a grand opening. You must be very excited.” Hollis looked around the room with admiration.

It was the right thing to say. Summer smiled with pride. “It’s our life’s dream. It was delayed, but now everything is going well.”

Hollis mentally scrambled to come up with conversation that would elicit answers opening the way to asking further questions.

“How long ago did Catherine Briscoe contact you?”

Summer’s lips drew into a tight line. “Before we go there, what is it exactly that you want from me? What information could I possibly have that could help you?”

Hollis said, “Catherine Briscoe was killed three weeks ago.”

Summer took a sharp intake of breath.

Hollis continued, “At the time she was in the midst of a lawsuit. We’re representing her employer
, who still wants to defend her work.”

“How awful, but I don’t see how I can help. To answer your question
, she last contacted me on July eighteenth. I remember because our daughter got married the next day and I was frantic with last minute errands.”

“What did she say?”

“Well, like I told you on the phone, I never did speak with her directly. She left a message asking to meet with us. After meeting with her the first time, Arlo was never going to meet with her again, so I knew it would just be me.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

Summer wrinkled her brow. “She wanted to talk about our opening. Well, not the grand opening ceremony but how we got started, our story. About Arlo’s projects and my charity work.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“No.”

“Did she mention Dorian Fields at all?”

“Dorian, no, why would she?”

“Do you know Mr. Fields?”

“Of course we do. We work on several fundraising events and dinners together. We’ve been to his house, and he to ours.”

Finally
, a connection.

“Interesting
. I’m trying to see the angle that would make your story of interest to
Transformation.”

Summer’s face drained of color.

Hollis leaned forward. “You didn’t know Briscoe worked for
Transformation
?”

Summer shook her head. “I think you should go.”

“Mrs. Mueller, I’m just trying to retrace Cathy’s steps. Can you just tell me if you had any contact with one of Fields’ nonprofits—”

“I’m not going to answer any more of your questions and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She walked over and stood at the front door.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Hollis picked up her purse and followed her to the entry.

“Somehow I don’t believe you. Goodbye.”

At a dead stop in five o’clock traffic, Hollis saved a little time by using hands-free to call Mark with an update.

“So Mueller kicked you out?” he said.

“As soon as she heard that I was working with
Transformation
, I was
persona non grata
.” Hollis slowly eased into the far right lane, taking the off ramp. She would take the side streets over the crowded highway. “Actually I don’t blame her; I’d do the same. But the more interesting point was the Mueller connection to Fields.”

“Yeah, but there’re probably a lot of rich people who know Dorian Fields.”

“But we’ve got a link between Cathy, Fields, and the Muellers. There could be something there.”

“Sounds thin to me, but I guess we can’t be choosy.”

By the time Hollis returned to the office, it was too late to do much else other than pack up and go home. There was a message from Kelly stating that something had come up with her job, and she wouldn’t be able to get away to see her grandfather this week. She would call Hollis back to make an arrangement for next week.

Hollis deleted the call in frustration.

The next morning, w
ith Cathy’s depositions behind her and the discovery of a possible Mueller/Fields connection, Hollis was feeling more confident. She didn’t plan to be in the office so early but with the meeting with Ferris being put off for a week, she had time to catch her breath and work through some of the other case files George had left for her. Hollis spent the next two hours emptying her in-basket. By mid-morning she was completely caught up.

George came by and nodded approval when he saw the filings ready for his signature.

“I was a little worried that the Briscoe case was taking up too much of your time.” He adjusted his glasses on his nose.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Hollis handed him the stack of large folders.

She gave him a slight wave as he left.

Closing the door to her office, she reached for Cathy’s thin file containing the phone message slip. The yellow slip gave no indication who the message was for, just a time
—2:35—a date, and the name and number for a Joe Morton. Hollis picked up her phone and tapped in the number.

“Morton’s Photography, Amber speaking, can I help you?”

“I was trying to reach Joe Morton. Is he there?”

“Nah, he’s out doing a shoot. Can I have him call you back?”

“When do you expect him to return?”

“He’ll be back before lunch.” The girl on the other end popped a wad of gum.
“He’s got an appointment.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll come by before then.” Hollis clicked off the phone. Why would Cathy take on a photographer for work assignments when
Transformation’s
extensive freelance camera pros were some of the best paid in the industry?

Interesting
.

Morton Photography was a store front business located in a strip mall on the outskirts of downtown Oakland. Hollis parked in front of the bakery next door. A little bell tinkled as she pushed open the glass door. The room was split in half by a long, chest-high white counter. Poster-sized photos of brides and infants in a myriad of poses lined the walls. She caught a movement from behind the counter, and her eyes came to rest on a young girl—likely Amber—reading a paperback.

“Excuse me. I called earlier. I’m here to see Mr. Morton?”

“You’re his appointment? You’re early.”

“No, I’m the one who called. You told me he would be back before lunch.”

“Oh, well he’s not—”

The door opened and a tall man with bright red hair,
a beard, and freckles entered carrying a tripod and a large camera bag on his back. If Santa had red hair he would look like Joe Morton.

“Hello, you’re early.” He walked over with his free hand
extended and shook Hollis’. “Just give me a few minutes to set up and we can get started. Did you bring your suit?” He put his gear down on a table in the rear of the studio.

While Hollis was tempted to take the conversation further and see what kind of photography Joe Morton
produced, this was not the time.

“I’m not your appointment, Mr. Morton. My name is Hollis Morgan
. I work for a law firm representing Catherine Briscoe’s employer. I hoped I could just talk to you for a few minutes.”

While Hollis had always thought a book on how to
keep a poker face could really sell out to a niche audience, it was clear even if such a book existed, Joe Morton would never be able to play cards. His face turned beet red, and his hands clenched and unclenched. Even Amber looked up at his silence.

“Shit.” He looked past her
, letting a long moment pass. “Shit. I couldn’t believe it when I read about her death in the paper.”

He moved quickly behind the counter and put his gear on a rear table.

“If I could just—”

“I can’t talk to you now. I have a sitting.” His voice was strained as he moved hastily to organize the shoot.

Hollis ventured, “Can I see you later, at a time that works for you?”

“I’m not talkin’ to no lawyers. I told Cathy I would only speak with her. She made me promise that no one else would know.” He shook his head. “She trusted me.”

“Cathy was also my friend. We’re trying to defend her work. I found your name among her things.”

He ran his hand over his beard.

Morton peered over an appointment book on the counter and ran his fingers down the page. “Amber, go take an early lunch. I’ve got the studio covered.”

Amber scrambled to get her purse. She smiled as she headed for the door.

Morton motioned for Hollis to follow him to a back room. The windowless room was painted a soft taupe. It was tastefully decorated with a long sofa and love seat, low lamp light and framed oversized landscape photography.

“I got somebody comin’ in
, so we don’t have a lot of time.” He directed her to a chair across from a large rosewood desk. “Talk.”

Hollis quickly described the arrangements with
Transformation
and the attempts she and Mark were making to validate Cathy’s research.

She finished, “I know you have an appointment soon. Perhaps we could meet later today? I’ve given you a lot to think about
, and I’d like to hear how you fit into all of this.”

The front door bell tinkled.

Morton, who had been silent the whole time, finally nodded. “All right, come back at closing. We’ll talk then.”

When Hollis got back to her office, she noticed a middle-aged woman sitting in the firm’s lobby. Dressed in a faded red overcoat, she clutched a purse in her lap as if fearful of a pending snatch.

Tiffany nodded at Hollis to come over to the reception desk. “She’s one of yours.”

Hollis raised her eyebrows and walked over to the woman. “Hello, I understand you’re waiting for me. Did we have an appointment?”

“No, no, I just hoped I could catch you. My name is Amy Hyde
. Joy told me about you.” Hollis must have looked uncertain. “You spoke to her at Heaven’s Praises.”

She smiled. “Of course, yes, Ms. Hyde, why don’t we go back to a conference room, where we can talk in private
?”

Hollis walked her to a small meeting room.

“I don’t want to take up much of your time. Joy told me not to bother you. Everybody knows you’ve been going around trying to find out if we’re doing our jobs. But I got to tell you: I don’t think you realize what these places mean.”

Hollis shook her head, “I’m not checking up—”

“I know you have to say that, but hear me out. I was an alcoholic for twenty-two years. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for a drink. Nothin’. My family, they’re all alcoholics, too. I was in and out of rehab more times than I can count. No one could tell me anything.” She swallowed. “Then one night I went to Heaven’s Praises. It was cold and rainy, the shelters were full, and me and my bottle planned to stay the night in the rear doorway. It was protected, and I could move the garbage bin over to keep me dry.”

Hollis tried to keep the surprise from showing on her face.

Amy Hyde continued, “Anyway, I had all my setup done for the night when this man came around the side and moved the bin back. He was dressed in jeans and a slicker. He looked down at me with eyes I had only seen before in church when I was a child, and he held out his hand.”

Hollis found herself hanging on the woman’s words.

“He said, ‘I’ve been where you are. Leave your bottle and come with me.’ And even though I was drunk as a skunk, I had one moment of clear thinking. I went with him. We walked through that moment with me holding his hand.”

Amy pulled her sweater close. “That was twelve years ago, and that man was Dorian Fields, and I’ve never had another drop since.”

Hollis struggled to find the words. “Ms. Hyde, you don’t understand. I’m not trying to—”

“No, you don’t understand.” Amy pointed her finger. “There are people who talk about doing good things, and there are people who do good things. Mr. Fields is the most honorable man I know. We may not always get the work right at the centers
—I know you probably heard that Richard had all the linens stolen at Fresh Start, but they wasn’t stole they was miscounted. And we know when Marian—”

“Whoa,
Ms. Hyde, there’s no need to explain anything to me.” Hollis leaned over. “I do understand what you are trying to tell me. The centers mean everything to people who have nothing.” She reached over and touched her shoulder. “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

“It’s not just a story, Miss Morgan,” she snapped.
“It’s the truth.”

From the window she watched Amy standing next to the bus stop. She refused to let Hollis pay for a cab. As much as Hollis wanted to dismiss her, she couldn’t. At first she suspected that Bartlett or maybe Fields had sent her.