Dark Tort (29 page)

Michael Radford went on: “I don’t know. I just think paralegal work is too demanding for a twenty-year-old who hasn’t been to college.”

I was picking up Donald Ellis’s plate and was thus close by him and able to hear his whispered “Baloney.”

“Donald, come on,” Richard put in. “She really couldn’t manage your oil-and-gas-lease bequeathal, plus do all the work for Charlie Baker, which turned into work for Charlie’s estate.”

“Richard, Charlie Baker was ecstatic with the work Dusty was doing for him,” Donald said, his tone defensive. “He told me so himself.”

There was a silence: an associate had corrected a partner, and that partner, I well knew, had what they call in the psych biz “ego issues.” I paused, a dirty salad plate in each hand.

“Now, Donald,” Bishop Uriah Sutherland said mildly, “careful. Remember the old saying in the church: ‘He who is too big for his breeches may soon lose his shirt.’ ”

“Did Jesus say that?” Marla asked, her face wrinkled questioningly. “I never actually saw that anywhere in Scripture. Bishop, maybe you could remind me of the exact—”

“Actually,” Nora Ellis piped up, “Louise told me that she suspected Dusty of stealing from the firm.”

“Stealing?” Donald said, dumbfounded. “Stealing what—pencils? Legal pads?” I wondered at his courage at contradicting both his boss and his wife.

“You had a lot of valuable stuff in there, Donald,” Nora went on. “Richard put in quite a few lovely things, didn’t you, Richard? They’re yours, right? And not the firm’s?”

Richard Chenault beamed. “Yes, they’re mine.” Then his face soured. “They’re lovely things that I may end up selling, if K.D. and her ravenous lawyer have their way.”

Nora sighed. Marla snatched a glance at me and rolled her eyes.

Back in the kitchen, I was filling the steamed vegetable platter when my cell phone buzzed. Omigosh, I had forgotten to call Arch.

“Mom,” Arch began. “You promised I’d be able to have a driving lesson today. Did you forget?”

“We’ll do it, we’ll do it,” I promised. And then I remembered that we had Julian’s Range Rover. “Oh no, hon, maybe not. We’re just here in Julian’s Rover, and it might not work—”

“Should we just do it another time?”

My shoulders slumped in defeat and guilt, a stance I took quite often as a mother, matter of fact.

“What does he want?” Julian whispered.

“To have a driving lesson in your Rover,” I replied. “I forgot I’d promised him.”

Julian shrugged. “So let him. Tell him to have the Vikarioses drop him off over here. Or they could walk, I guess.” Then he lofted the tray containing the tenderloins, potato puffs, and vegetables. Out in the dining room, the guests were still talking, and Nora hadn’t appeared to tell us to hurry up with the next course.

“All right, hon, listen. The clients are just starting the lunch, and then we have cake. Mrs. Ellis has a maid helping who’s going to do the cleanup. Julian says you can drive his Rover—”

“Wow! Is he sure? When do you want us?”

“Look,” I said, “why don’t you and Gus walk over here”—this would take almost an hour—“and by the time you get here, Julian and I will be able to go. Or at least, we should be.”

“Really?”

“We’ll be ready.”

And surprisingly, we were. The guests all loved the beef, so much so that they downed it and the accompaniments in record time. Vic Zaruski played a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” as we presented Donald with his cake, complete with tall candles. He still didn’t look entirely happy. But he did brighten up during the opening of the presents. Richard gave him a couple of expensive silk ties. The neighbors gave him history books, to which he was apparently partial. And Marla gave him four bottles of wine that I knew had cost her two hundred bucks a pop.

“Oh, Marla, thank you,” Donald said, with the first truly appreciative tone he’d had all day.

“Well,” Nora announced, “I have two things for you. First is a trip to a place where they make that wine, the Burgundy region of France.”

“Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have,” Donald Ellis said, and leaned over to give his wife a kiss on each cheek.

“And your final gift,” said Nora, “is behind the needlepoint I gave you last year.”

Donald wrinkled his brow while his wife carefully removed the lawyer-hugging needlepoint. Behind it was a framed picture by Charlie Baker. It was entitled Journey Cake.

It really was gorgeous, and vintage Charlie Baker, which tugged at my heart. While Nora explained to Donald how valuable the painting was, part of the Cake Series II that Charlie had been doing when he died, I read Charlie’s list of ingredients. Flour, cinnamon and other spices, sugar, butter, cider. But I stared at the painting. Something was still wrong with this recipe; I just didn’t know what. I happened to glance over at Richard, who was smiling more widely than Donald.

Alonzo Claggett commented, “That must have set you back a few pretty pennies, Nora.”

Nora ignored him and put her hand on my forearm. “Don’t you like it, Goldy?” She seemed eager for approval, even if it was from the caterer. Richard was murmuring praise of the painting.

“It’s fabulous, Nora,” I said. “Happy birthday, Donald. You’re a lucky man.”

Donald Ellis gave me another Demerol-deprived look. I smiled sympathetically and bustled back out to the kitchen, where I could quietly begin to round up our supplies and almost be done with this job.

Arch and Gus arrived just before two, their faces flushed from walking. Arch’s countenance was its usual pessimistic self, as if he didn’t believe I was actually going to let him drive. Gus was bubbly, as usual.

“This house is so cool! And you worked here? Did you fix tacos? Just kidding,” he burbled on, in typical Gus fashion.

Julian tousled Arch’s hair, a show of affection my son still permitted, but only from Julian. “Big Arch! Going to drive us home, eh? And in the Rover, too?”

“I’m going to go study your dashboard,” Arch announced, his voice serious. “So I can know where all the controls are.”

Julian and I used the last of our time packing up the steamer and other utensils I’d brought. Nora Ellis actually came out to help us.

“Hi there!” Gus greeted her. “I’m Gus Vikarios. Were you Goldy’s boss today?” When Nora replied that she was, Gus piped up, “How did she and Julian do? Did you have a nice party?”

“Yes, it was very nice,” Nora said, pushing her blond hair out of her face.

“Are you going to give them a good tip?” Gus asked brazenly.

“Gus!” I cried, although I was wondering the same thing myself.

We immediately followed Nora back in for our last box so she could be spared an answer. As we were leaving, she said, “Could you take the trash out, please? Lorraine has so much to do.”

With a quickly mumbled “Of course,” I started toward the enormous black plastic sack she was pointing to. And then, out of the blue—the unconscious, or wherever these things come from—I remembered Wink’s comment about Uriah Sutherland: He likes to poke around, ask questions and I caught him going through our trash. My question was this: Why? Furthermore: Hadn’t he seemed a bit too attentive to Alonzo and Marla’s discussion of trusts? And hadn’t that also been Dusty’s area of expertise? Also, how about that bracelet? Had Uriah’s champagne tastes—in women, say, or jewelry—made him look for a receipt for something he’d given to a young lover— say, Dusty? Or what if you flipped things upside down? Maybe doesn’t-like-birthdays Uriah Sutherland had poked a little too hard in the wrong place, been discovered, and been forced to destroy the evidence—that is, Dusty.

“Let me get it,” Julian said, his voice edgy. Without looking at Nora, he handed me the box, which was, I was quite sure, about twenty pounds lighter than the trash bag.

“And oh!” Nora said, as if she’d just remembered it. “Your gratuity!” She reached into her purse and pulled out four twenty-dollar bills, which she tucked into one of my hands that was holding the

box. With a smile and a wave, she walked back into the living room.

“What’s that, about a thirty percent tip?” Julian asked. “Fantastic!”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It’s great. But listen, I want you to put that trash in your Rover. And put any other trash in there that’s outside in their cans.”

“ What?” Julian cried.

“Just do it. With hired help taking out the garbage on a regular basis, they’ll never miss it.”

Once we were all settled in the not-smelling-too-great Rover, Julian said, “I’m going to back out, and then you can take it the rest of the way, okay?”

“Sure,” said Arch, who sounded none too sure.

Unfortunately, Julian was unable to make even a five-point turn to get us going forward. “You want to back down the driveway, Arch? The house is on a dead end. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure,” I began, but received a furious look from Arch.

Julian and Arch exchanged seats. Arch, unaware the car was on, turned the key in the ignition. The engine shrieked.

“Happens to everybody,” Julian said from the backseat.

Stay calm, I told myself, very calm. I closed my eyes and did a yoga breathing exercise while Julian quietly told Arch that he’d have to take the Rover straight back, then gradually turn to the left, so he could make it into the street.

“Wait!” Julian said sharply. “Somebody’s coming.”

It was Donald Ellis. He was a little out of breath.

“I wanted to thank you all for doing such a great job,” he said. “I had a fabulous birthday. Here.” He pressed a hundred-dollar bill into my hand.

“Mr. Ellis, your wife has already tipped us, and that is far too much—” I began. But he was already gone.

“Can we go now?” Arch asked. His voice was so nervous I wasn’t sure he really wanted to drive, but there was no way I was going to embarrass him in front of his half brother and Julian.

I looked in the rearview mirror on the passenger side. “Sure. Give it a little gas.”

Arch began to inch down the driveway, tapping the brakes every two seconds in the way of new drivers, giving all of us in the car whiplash.

I frowned at the mirror, and realized we were up so high in the Rover that I couldn’t see exactly where the driveway was. Since the very last thing I wanted was to whack into Nora Ellis’s carefully planted fruit trees, I opened my door a smidgeon.

“Okay,” I said encouragingly, my heart light from having received two big tips. “Give it just a teensy bit more gas.”

Which is what Arch did. In fact, he gave the Rover a rather large bit of gas, with the big SUV still in reverse. This sent it catapulting into the Ellises’ serpentine wall, which tore off the open passenger-side door.

I raised Tom on his cell. He had been investigating another case nearby, and could be at the Ellises’ house within fifteen minutes. He told us he would call a tow truck, because he knew a guy who would respond right away. I thanked him profusely.

“And see what Julian’s schedule is like,” Tom added. “If he can stay with us until the department cleans up this murder, so much the better.”

“You mean, because it’ll take forever to get the door replaced? Or do you think our family is in danger?”

“Neither,” Tom replied calmly. “But we’ve got a lead on who tried to hit Vic out in our street, and I just want as many folks in the house as possible, to watch each other’s backs. Plus, if you’re going back to do any cooking for that law firm, I don’t want you alone.”

I exhaled, thanked him again, and signed off. Then I checked out the serpentine wall. That thing must have been made of concrete, because it was completely unharmed. Thank the Lord for small favors.

As if he’d heard Tom discussing him, Vic Zaruski came ambling down the driveway. His smile was wide. “Mr. Ellis just gave me a hundred-dollar tip! Man, I want to come back here! They’ve got a Steinway that nobody plays. What the—” He was staring at the Rover door, which was lying halfway across the driveway, where it had landed. Then he looked up at our foursome: Julian, Arch, Gus, and yours truly. Vic’s grin returned. “Somebody is screwed!”

Arch and Gus were still young enough that any untoward use of profanity could send them into paroxysms of laughter.

“Vic, please. Not in front of the kiddies.”

“You should sue Rover,” Vic said, his voice suddenly serious. “A door shouldn’t come off like that, you know?”

“Well,” Julian commented, “help is on the way. And I don’t think Rover would pay for someone backing into a wall.”

“Julian,” I began for at least the fourteenth time, “I am so so so sorry—”

“No, it was my fault,” Arch said. He’d been alternately apologetic and upset since we’d all hollered for him to “Stop!” This in turn had sent me backward, then rocketing forehead-first into the dashboard. I fingered the spot gently; the bruise was already swelling. I wanted to think about something, anything, besides Arch driving. Or not driving, as the case might be.

“It was my fault, Arch,” I said with a finality that I hoped would close the argument.

Gus said, “This is just like what my grandfather is always saying.” Gus lowered his voice. “ ‘Take responsibility, Gus. That’s what no one does these days. Take responsibility!’ ”

“I’m going to run inside,” Julian said. “You need to get some ice on that forehead, Goldy.” The very last thing I wanted was to bother the Ellises, and have them come out here. But Julian was already racing up the driveway. I prayed that he would meet Lorraine, who would help him out.