Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) (13 page)
Read Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
Theo, Judge Trane’s judicial assistant, whirled around from where he’d been collating papers on a credenza. He hurried over and let us in.
“You’re early,” he wheezed.
“I’m in a hurry.”
“Of course, of course.” He backed away and returned to the whirring printer. “Uh, do you need anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?” he chattered over his shoulder. His white dress shirt was damp and clinging in a wide streak of greater transparency down his back. I wondered just how physically demanding preparing documents was—or how long he’d been at it. I suspected Judge Trane could be a very exacting woman to work for.
Josh and I murmured our refusals of the offered hospitality. I didn’t want to harry Theo any more than he already was.
His pants were a size or two too small, and from behind I could see the white lining of his pockets as the fabric stretched to accommodate his girth. That’s what sitting in an office chair all day will do to you. The poor guy needed more fresh air and a hobby.
I’d been whisked straight through this anteroom and into Judge Trane’s chambers earlier, so I studied the decor for lack of anything else to do. There was no place for visitors to sit—and, curiously, there were no personal or celebratory tchotchkes or certificates or photos on display. Judge Trane appeared to concentrate the trappings of her persona in her private chambers and not inflict them on others, which I rather appreciated.
But it made the minutes slow to eons without distraction.
Theo straightened and hefted a pile of papers against his belly. “If you’ll just give me a moment.” Sweat trickled from his receding hairline and down the side of his face, but he seemed not to notice. He padded across the thick carpet and knocked lightly on Judge Trane’s door. Then he spun the knob and shouldered his way into her chambers with his burden.
Two minutes later, I was back in the overstuffed armchair I’d occupied earlier with Josh seated in the chair beside me. Again, Judge Trane sat across from me, with Theo’s pile of papers anchoring the low table between us. Theo himself hovered in attendance, ready to fetch whatever we might need.
I couldn’t see a clock, but there was definitely a ticking in my head as Judge Trane methodically explained the meaning of the documents. The legalese was so much gibberish I could only hope the words would get trapped in my brain for future review, when maybe they would make sense.
But Josh proved to be incredibly prescient because I was not going to be required to sign anything. In fact, Judge Trane used her mother-of-pearl pen only as a pointer, indicating pertinent sections of the ruling as she flipped the pages over one at a time.
At a point deep in the stack, her green eyes narrowed, and I became aware that the pause in her modulated soliloquy had grown uncomfortably long. My lack of attention had been noticed. I clasped my hands between my knees and tilted forward, willing myself to return her gaze and for my legs to stop jittering with the passing seconds.
“Forgive an old contract attorney for her ebullience.” The corners of Judge Trane’s lips lifted in a wry smile. “To summarize, I will hold the disbursement of non-liquid assets for further review, and in the meantime I’m giving you power of attorney to consider all reasonable offers to purchase the business intact, including putting it to auction. It could be a viable and even profitable company with the right leadership. I expect there will be bidders. As far as settling accounts goes, there is very little debt other than some back pay for employees because the FBI seized the bank accounts in the middle of a payroll cycle and the related withholding for the IRS. The assets should also cover the modest severance you requested for the employees who were laid off. I’ll make sure the IRS is amenable to a speedy resolution in that matter.”
These were all things I’d wanted to hear. I nodded. The way she phrased it, the business sounded very clean, very appealing. A not-to-miss deal.
Judge Trane flipped the last few pages around and scritched the pen nib above the lines waiting for her signature. She tapped the pages into place and leaned back so Theo could reach over her shoulder and retrieve the stack from the table. He cradled it in his arms and slipped out of the room. I suspected that the court’s record-keeping system had been digitized to the point that it would accept and time-stamp new rulings whenever they were filed, thus rendering all hours of the day and night equally and properly legal. But the judge’s ruling probably wouldn’t be public until the next business day, which in reality was only a few hours away.
Judge Trane rested her elbows on the chair arms and pressed her fingertips together into a peak. Although she was as composed and elegant as before, there were deeper shadows under her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks, less make-up. She looked older, tired, but somehow—almost surreptitiously—elated. Perhaps it was the way her eyes shone.
“Unofficially, thank you for leaving the ten million as a cushion and not siphoning that off along with the rest,” she said quietly. “You definitely made my job easier by doing that. However, I don’t know if I should offer my condolences that you have not yet needed to pay that ten million as a ransom for your husband or not. Just know I empathize with your plight. Also, I admire your grit. Go get ‘em. You have two weeks to solicit a reasonable offer.”
It was as close to a pep talk as I was ever going to get from a woman who had probably been the most ruthless player on her college lacrosse team. There was steel in that spine—and in those eyes.
“Thanks for making this a priority,” I said, rising.
She nodded. “Theo will see you out.”
oOo
Josh promised to keep me updated on developments with Ebersole and Zimmermann, and I promised to pass his love on to Tarq. I’d forgotten that Josh had stayed with Loretta and Tarq for a few days during the planning for the Lutsenko shakedown. I’d have been willing to bet they’d had some fascinating late-night conversations—definitely the kind of experiences people bond over.
I snatched my boarding pass from a self-service kiosk in the nearly deserted ticketing hall then ran for the security checkpoint. There were a few travelers straggling along inside the serpentine lanes roped off in front of the walk-through metal detectors. But the handful of TSA agents still on duty were equally lethargic and waved each person on through with neither friendly smiles nor any hints of additional interest in the contents of anyone’s luggage.
I grabbed my bag off the conveyor belt and made it to the gate in time to queue behind a young man with ratty facial hair and mandala tattoos on his calves. He was digging through his backpack for his boarding pass. The gate agent stood beside the open door to the ramp, staring into the middle distance, her hand out, waiting, and a wooden smile pinned on her face. She looked like a mannequin that had been propped on its feet for eight hours straight. The young man dropped his backpack to the floor and rustled through the pockets of his cargo shorts. Eventually, both he and I successfully presented our proofs of purchase, and the agent slammed the door behind us.
San Jose must not be a popular weekend destination for the Portland crowd. The plane was maybe thirty percent full. I passed my assigned seat and headed toward the back where I found an empty row that I could lay claim to. I wouldn’t be sleeping, but it was preferable not to have to speak to anyone. The pretense of amiability just wasn’t on my agenda.
Takeoff, beverage service, fidget, stare out the window at black nothingness, stretch my legs this way and that way, redirect the air nozzle overhead, fidget, touchdown, wait on a cold bench in Area 7 for the shuttle to the parking lot—all traps of dreary monotony, almost a repeating loop of slogging through ineffectual motions.
But finally I was in Lentil, nosing her onto I-205 north, and I could control the speed of my progress. I punched the speaker button on my phone and set it on the seat beside me while it rang. Lentil’s windshield wipers squeaked across the glass like a metronome, swiping impermanent streaks through the drizzle.
“Where are you?” Clarice growled.
“Leaving Portland. I’ll be there in two hours, tops.”
“Go straight to the hospital. Don’t stop at Mayfield.”
I tightened my hands on the steering wheel until they ached. I desperately needed something solid to hang on to.
“Walt just left to go there too,” Clarice carried on, filling the void. “I’m keeping an eye on the boys and Emmie here at the bunkhouse—they’re all in bed. She knows she won’t see Tarq again. It’s—um—we haven’t really talked about it. She’s gone back to being super quiet the past couple days. I think she’s saving up her questions for you.” Clarice’s voice broke. My eminently practical, knowledgeable, tough, and crusty assistant was sniffling into the phone.
How could a person ever get to the point where they felt proficient at dealing with death? No matter the pervasive ache I might have to endure, I never wanted that kind of detachment.
The speedometer needle was touching 80 mph, and I flicked a glance into the rearview mirror and lightened my pressure on the gas pedal. “Will you keep me company?” I finally asked. “Now? On the phone?”
“Yeah,” Clarice murmured. “I’d like that.”
But we didn’t talk as I sped through the night.
oOo
Tarq was a shell between two sheets. Papery-thin, sallow skin and prominent bones, his eyelids dark and hollow over his sunken eyes. It would have taken better eyesight than mine to perceive if his chest was rising and falling. His equipment setup was simple—an IV shunted into one arm and a cannula looped over his ears and into his nostrils, delivering oxygen.
Walt immediately unfolded and pushed to standing when he saw me, and I walked straight into his arms. “He’s been asking for you,” he murmured into my hair.
“When was the last time he spoke?”
From the tension in Walt’s muscles, I could tell he didn’t want to tell me. “A couple hours ago.”
There was a shuffle and squeak on the linoleum behind me, and then Loretta’s thin arms wrapped around me too. It was a pile-on embrace, and never had that smothered feeling been so needed. I worked an arm around her waist and pulled her in tight.
“You just missed Des,” she said softly. “He went to get coffee. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“You need a break too. Is there a place where you can sleep?” I asked. “When Hank was here, the staff brought in a cot for Sidonie.” I pushed her back far enough to get a good look at her face.
But her colorless lips were in that thin stubborn line I’ve learned to respect. “Later—after. But you can sit with him for a while.” She gave me a little shove toward the chair she’d just vacated.
I slid onto the warm seat and picked up Tarq’s hand. It was nearly weightless, and even though his fingers were long, they appeared almost feminine since they were so slender. Wrinkles bunched at his knuckles. His nails were clean and cut close to the quick. Dry, with an abstract quality—Tarq’s hand sandwiched between my own seemed as though it belonged to a different man. A man who could and should keep on living for another couple decades.
Des came in and quietly handed around paper cups of coffee. He offered me his, but I waved it off. He needed the caffeine as much or more than I did.
Time crashed. I’d been in a mad rush since Loretta’s first call, and now it felt as though I’d slammed into something muffled and deep, like I was bottoming out on a trampoline without being sprung back into the air.
I must have dozed. Because I flinched, abruptly regaining consciousness, canted stiffly against the edge of Tarq’s bed. My head jerked up, and I found Tarq’s dark, glittering eyes staring at me.
A small, startled sound burst out of my throat, and I squeezed his hand. His dry, cracked lips opened, tried to form words. I leaned over him and stroked his cheek.
“Nora.” It came out like a rattle, a rough pulse of the small amount of air remaining in his lungs.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Did…you…do it?” So much effort in those short, faint words.
I nodded, blinded by tears. “To the best of my ability. And a surprise—I got a favorable ruling from the bankruptcy judge. Now we’re waiting.”
