Cruel Justice (14 page)

Eventually she resorted to singing. He seemed interested, but didn’t care for any of her tunes. Everyone’s a critic. She tried “Annie Laurie,” a tune her mother used to sing to her when she was a little girl. Not interested. She tried “Ave Maria.” She tried “A Tisket, a Tasket.” “The Noble Duke of York.” “Polly Wolly Doodle.” She tried twenty other songs. No luck.

Ben had made a suggestion before he left, but Christina had disregarded it. Totally lame. What did he know about babies, anyway? But finally, in sheer desperation, she gave in and began singing, “Flintstones … meet the Flintstones …”

The caterwauling ceased, and by the time she got to the part about “courtesy of Fred’s two feet,” Joey was making a soft chortling noise. He giggled when she said, “Yabba-dabba-doo.” And after a few quiet repetitions, he was asleep.

Praise the Lord. She rocked him a bit longer, then set him down in his laundry-basket-cum-crib. What an ordeal. A few more experiences like that and she could almost stop regretting her decision to—

No. Even just thinking to herself, Christina couldn’t make herself believe that lie. She would regret that decision for the rest of her life.

She went to the bathroom and splashed some revitalizing cold water on her face. She was burning up. The temperature was dancing around a hundred and five, and no big surprise, the air-conditioning in Ben’s apartment was on the fritz. She cranked the thermostat down to sixty-five, but it didn’t help.

She suddenly realized she had never gotten that shower and shampoo she had wanted. When better than now? She decided to take a quick, quiet soak before the tyrannical tyke returned to the world of the waking.

She peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower. The cool beads of water flowed down her body, providing almost instant relief from the heat and stress of the morning. What a splendid invention showers were. What did people do before? She sang a quiet chorus of “Annie Laurie,” just for her own benefit, then borrowed some of Ben’s Pert Plus and washed her hair.

When she was finished, she dried off and wrapped a white towel around her body and another one around her wet hair. Just as she twisted the towel into place she heard the front door buzzer.

Isn’t this always the way it goes? she thought. Just great.

Mrs. Marmelstein, no doubt. She probably heard me singing and ran up to make sure I wasn’t holding an orgy or anything.

Christina trudged into the front parlor, wearing only her two towels, and opened the front door.

The woman on the other side of the door was in her mid-sixties, although she was quite well preserved and almost wrinkle free. She was dressed in an elegant, obviously expensive pant suit. She clutched a Gucci purse and wore a diamond ring the size of a quarter.

Christina pressed her hand against the towel covering her torso. “Oh, my gosh. You must be Mrs. Kincaid. Ben’s mother.”

The older woman nodded slightly.

“Omigosh. Oh my
gosh.
” She tugged desperately at her towel, trying to make sure she was amply covered. To her dismay, the knot came apart and the towel started to fall. She clutched it desperately to her chest. The back flopped open, exposing her pink wet backside.

“I bet you’re wondering who I am,” Christina said, trying to pull the towel closed in back with her free hand.

Mrs. Kincaid nodded again, even more imperceptibly than before. “I must admit to a soupçon of curiosity. …”

“I … well, gosh …” As Christina spoke, the towel around her hair began to slip down her forehead, covering her forehead, then her eyes. She wanted to push the towel back up, but she couldn’t take her hands off the lower towel without exposing herself. She tried to blow the towel back up, but it didn’t work. The towel drooped down farther, over her nose.

“I’m Christina McCall,” she said, trying to ignore the towel obscuring her vision. “I’m … well, I’m Ben’s friend. His … good friend.”

“But of course you are, my dear.” Mrs. Kincaid brushed past Christina and entered the apartment.

“No—I mean—you don’t understand.” Christina suddenly realized she was standing in front of the open door half-naked. She pushed it closed with her foot. “I work for Ben.”

Mrs. Kincaid positioned herself on the natty sofa in the center of Ben’s living room. “You mean he
pays
you?”

“Yes. Exactly. That’s it.”

Mrs. Kincaid shook her head and made a tsking noise. “It’s come to that, then. What a pity.”

Christina realized she couldn’t go on conversing with this towel hanging over her eyes, so she shook the towel off her head. Her damp red hair cascaded around her shoulders. “I still don’t think you’ve quite got it. I’m a legal assistant. I work for Ben. In his office. I help him with his legal practice.” She looked at Mrs. Kincaid pleadingly. “I’m a
professional
!”

Beads of water flew from Christina’s wet head into Mrs. Kincaid’s face. The older woman raised a hand and pointedly wiped away the drops. “And precisely what professional services are you rendering today?” she asked, scrutinizing Christina.

“I was taking a shower,” Christina said, totally exasperated. “I was hot and sticky because, as you’ll soon realize, Ben’s air conditioner doesn’t work, and I wanted to wash off while the baby was still asleep—”

“The baby!” Mrs. Kincaid’s face suddenly became animated. “Then he’s here?”

“Yes,” Christina said. “That’s why
I’m
here. I’m babysitting.”

Mrs. Kincaid rose to her feet. “May I see him?”

“Of course. He’s in Ben’s bedroom in his, er, crib.” Christina showed Mrs. Kincaid to the back room.

There, Mrs. Kincaid cracked open the door and peeked in at the slumbering child. He was lying on his back; a soft whistle streamed out of his mouth with each breath.

Mrs. Kincaid did not actually smile, but her eyes crinkled and glowed. “That’s my grandchild, you know,” she whispered. They tiptoed back to the front room. “My only one.”

“Yeah.” Christina laughed. “Unless there’s something Ben hasn’t gotten around to telling you yet.”

Mrs. Kincaid whirled on her. “What do you mean? Do you know something?”

Christina flustered. “No, no. It was just a joke. Really. I don’t know why I said that. What a stupid thing to say.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Oh.” With a quick, almost invisible gesture, Mrs. Kincaid smoothed the crease of her slacks, whisking away several cat hairs she had acquired on the sofa, and reseated herself. “Pardon me if I overreacted.”

The two women sat in silence. Christina knew Mrs. Kincaid was eyeing her, like a scientist analyzing a strange new specimen. She felt extremely uncomfortable. “Well, perhaps I should get dressed—”

“So this is Ben’s apartment,” Mrs. Kincaid said.

“Yup.” Christina knotted her fingers awkwardly. “Chez Kincaid. Have you never been here before?”

“No. Never.” Her eyes drank in the room. “I’m beginning to understand why he hasn’t invited me to visit.” She pulled out a sofa cushion and stared at the considerable accretion of cookie crumbs, change, and chewed-up ballpoint pens. Wordlessly, she dropped the cushion back into place.

“Ben’s been pretty short on cash these past few years,” Christina said in his defense.

“I’ve offered him money a dozen times,” Mrs. Kincaid replied. “But he refuses to take it.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Mrs. Kincaid entered the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and inventoried the contents. Two cases of Coke Classic, two large cartons of chocolate milk, a half-empty bottle of white milk that had expired three weeks before, and a stick of butter covered with toast crumbs.

“Some things never change.” She pushed the fridge closed. “And so nutritious. I assume the white milk is for the cat?”

“Cap’n Crunch cereal,” Christina said. “Although sometimes he eats it straight out of the box.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s eyelashes fluttered. “His diet hasn’t altered in twenty-five years.”

“Yeah, well, he gets takeout a lot.”

Mrs. Kincaid noticed a spot of unidentified grunge on the kitchen counter and wiped it away with a quick and precise sweep of her hand. While she was at it she rolled up the paper towels and rearranged the canisters.

“Uh, ma’am, I’m sure Ben wouldn’t want you to—”

Mrs. Kincaid brushed past Christina and looked into the sink. She gasped. The sink was filled with plates, glasses, and silverware, all encrusted with dried food (takeout, probably) and unrecognizable goop. On the bottom layer of plates, a gray fungus was growing.

Mrs. Kincaid pressed her hand to her throat. “Do you suppose he has any … rubber gloves?”

“Oh, look, I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to—”

“I don’t
want
to, my dear.” She drew herself erect. “Frankly, I haven’t done dishes in years. But this is an emergency.”

Christina showed her the place under the sink where Ben kept his cleaning supplies (but no rubber gloves). After inhaling deeply to fortify herself, Mrs. Kincaid poured a half bottle of dishwashing liquid into the sink and turned on the tap. She held her breath and tried not to look at what she was doing. “ ‘Once more unto the breach. …’ ”

“Well,” Christina said, “now that you’re here, I guess I can bid adieu. …”

“No, please.” To Christina’s surprise, Mrs. Kincaid reached out and placed a wet hand on her arm. “Please don’t.”

Christina blinked. “You want me to stay?”

“Please. If you can.”

“I suppose. But … why?”

Mrs. Kincaid picked up a plate and began to scrub. “I thought perhaps … we could talk.”

Christina smiled nervously. “I can’t imagine anything we could discuss.”

“That won’t be hard,” Mrs. Kincaid said reassuringly. “We’ll discuss my son.”

“What about him?”

“Anything would be of interest, when it comes to Benjamin. He’s an absolute mystery to me. I’ve never understood him.”

“Aw, Ben’s not so tough,” Christina said. She was beginning to relax, despite the fact that she was still standing around practically starkers. “He’s a good guy. Goodhearted, you know?”

“Tilting at windmills? Trying to save the world from itself?”

“Well … sometimes.”

“Always taking on projects he shouldn’t?”

“True.”

Mrs. Kincaid nodded. “He got that from his father.”

“But he can be very persistent. When he starts something, he sees it through to the bitter end.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s eyes glistened. “He got that from me.”

“Ben really has done some outstanding work.” Christina had the odd sensation that she was pleading the worth of the son to the mother. “He’s resolved cases the police couldn’t. He’s won trials everyone said couldn’t be won. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told him not to take some impossible case, only to see him do it anyway—and win. He never turns down a client who needs help. He takes any case he thinks worthwhile, even when he knows he’ll never make any money off it. I keep telling him, ‘Ben,
il faut de l’argent
—that means ‘one must have money.’ ”

“I know, dear.”

“But he never listens.” She paused. “He doesn’t always have a lot of common sense, but—”

“But that’s where you come in?” Mrs. Kincaid said abruptly.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be presumptuous. I’ve only known you for a few minutes. But I tend to form early impressions and stick with them. And you strike me as a very … practical person. A good match for Benjamin.”

“Really.” Christina tilted her head. “Huh. I guess I never thought about it like that.”

Mrs. Kincaid continued her industrial-strength scrubbing.

“Look,” Christina said tentatively, “do you like Earl Grey tea?”

“Mmm. I adore it.”

“I thought you might.” Christina glanced toward the back room. Joey was still sleeping peacefully. “Why don’t I get dressed, then I’ll put on the tea.” To her own surprise, she found herself looking forward to it. “We might have something to discuss after all.”

“D
O YOU THINK THEY’LL
mind if I sit in?” Ben asked as he took a seat in the back of the country club’s main conference room.

“I doubt if they’ll even notice,” Mitch replied. “They’re usually pretty mellow in the early afternoon. Until they’ve had a chance to shake off those three-martini lunches.”

Mitch left Ben and unlocked a cabinet at the north end of the room. As soon as Mitch turned the key, the lid popped up, revealing an extensive liquor cabinet. Ben saw countless bottles with more varied and expensive labels than he could find in most Tulsa liquor stores.

Like Giselle at the sound of a can opener, as soon as the cabinet was open the board members began to flow into the conference room. The first was a short, round man with a bushy red beard and not a single hair on his head. He had apparently just come in from outside; he wiped sweat off his forehead and temples with the sleeve of his monogrammed shirt.

“Some enchanted evening …” The man crooned to no one in particular as he swaggered over to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a Scotch and soda, then held it aloft in one hand and serenaded the glass. “You will meet a stran-ger …”

So, Ben thought, the first board member is an out-of-work lounge singer.

The red-bearded man downed half his Scotch, then shifted songs. “A foggy day, in London town …”

He stopped when he noticed the club secretary, already seated at the conference table. She was young, probably in her early twenties. Her well-coiffed hair was almost as short as her skirt. Ben had the immediate impression that her shorthand skills were probably slight and her salary enormous.

“How about a hug, baby doll?” the man said as he approached. The young woman smiled, stood, and stretched out her arms to receive him.

“Are they sweethearts?” Ben whispered.

“No. Dick Crenshaw is a strong believer in hug therapy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hug therapy. It’s supposed to be very healthy. Relieves the stress of the workplace.”

“I’ll bet.”

“It’s entirely platonic, or so Dick keeps telling us. Good for the staff. Good for everybody.”

Ben watched the man’s hands rove and squeeze. “So he’s actually providing a community service. And here I thought he was just trying to get a cheap thrill.”