Dark Tort (3 page)

Claggs, humbled, had finally figured the only way to feed his skiing habit was to do a law degree at the University of Colorado and live and work within an hour’s driving time from the resorts. Ookie had gleefully begun work as a squash instructor only, and the two of them had embarked on their happily-ever-after life. Or so it always seemed to me.

Alonzo had dark curly hair and blue eyes, the startling product of mixing an Italian mother with a WASP father. He was slightly taller than yours truly, and as slim and fit as a short basketball player or tall gymnast. He frequently came into the law firm with Dusty, since he worked out at the new Aspen Meadow rec center, called the Butterfield, where Dusty rode the exercise bike. I’d always thought it made Dusty feel appreciated, one of the gang, to come into the office at Alonzo’s side, although Louise Upton, the ultrasevere office manager, clearly disapproved. One didn’t mix the lower and higher totems on the pole, after all.

And of course, I realized belatedly, with only three lawyers working in the firm this week, I probably shouldn’t have expected a bevy of joke-playing attorneys to come jumping out of nowhere to yell, “Surprise!” when I tripped over Dusty.

The final car that had pulled into the lot made me shudder, but not from the cold. It was Louise Upton, in the dark green Lexus she’d bought used at a great price, as she always told anyone who would listen. She banged out of her car and began to stride toward Richard. She was wearing a long gray coat that emphasized her broad shoulders and broad backside. Her step was military stiff, but as she marched, her steel-wool pad of hair did not budge.

I recalled the time I’d pointed out two errors of grammar in my contract, a contract that had been drawn up by one of the partners, to Louise, or Miss Upton, as I’d been told I should call her. She was a sixtyish, formidable guard dog of a woman, and she had told me if I wanted to be the firm’s caterer, I needed to learn my place. She’d actually said that: I needed to learn my place.

When I’d quietly asked her what my place was, she’d told me she didn’t think I was cute. Not one bit. And if I wanted to act cute, and make grammatical corrections to my contract, I could tear up said contract, and they would simply find somebody else to cater their meetings.

While I’d frowned and pretended to contemplate a saddle nailed to the wall in the cowboy-themed conference room, I’d tried to think of a cute joke, or at least how I could make a cute-acting exit. But we’d been spared a confrontation by the sudden appearance of Donald Ellis. When Donald had summoned Louise and told her she was needed in a partner’s office, I’d quickly penned in the needed corrections, initialed them, and signed on the dotted line. Acting distracted, Donald had taken over the negotiation and said how much they appreciated the fact that such a well-known local caterer would be working for them. In fact, he was going to recommend that his wife, Nora, hire me for their next party. Then he’d told me to go make him some coffee, and bring it to him. When Louise Upton had reappeared, Donald, the contract, and yours truly had all disappeared. The office manager was not a happy camper.

So. Ever since then, I had not been Louise Upton’s favorite person. I’d figured I could do without her friendship, but the upcoming confrontation was bound to be particularly terrible. Lucky for me, the chilly nighttime fog prevented me from reading her facial expression, which was sure to be negative.

“Goldy!” Louise exclaimed. “I would like to know—”

“Louise!” Richard Chenault barked. “Please be quiet!” He turned to me. “Goldy, I’m worried about you.” His suddenly caring tone penetrated the soup of frigid mist. “Are you all right? Do you have any idea what happened to Dusty?” Richard’s silver hair was swept up and back in a way most folks, present company included, found intimidating. But his tanned, handsome-featured face was quite young-looking. It was a disconcerting combination, the gleaming, neatly combed hair and the gorgeous, unwrinkled face with its startlingly pale gray eyes. I dreaded telling him that his niece Dusty Routt— daughter of the ne’er-do-well brother who’d abandoned his family— might be dead.

“It’s bad,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I found Dusty . . .”

“You found Dusty?” Donald Ellis echoed. He glanced up to where

K.D. had gone. “In the office?”

“Yes.” I inhaled. “She was here to help me cook for the Friday breakfast meeting. When I arrived, she was on the fioor, not moving. I don’t know what was wrong with her. She . . . she wasn’t breathing.”

“Omigod,” said Alonzo Claggett. “You called for an ambulance?”

I assured him that I had, and it should be along any minute. Meanwhile, I added grimly, maybe K.D. would have some luck reviving her. I hugged my sides. I was chilled to the bone, and the sweatshirt Vic had given me still wasn’t helping.

“Everybody looks cold,” Richard said, his voice gentle but firm. “Let’s go inside and check on Dusty and K.D.” He lifted his chin at Donald, Alonzo, and Louise, to indicate that everyone should follow him.

“We probably ought to avoid the office,” I managed to say. My breath came out in a ghostlike puff. “I mean, we should wait for the cops.” I wasn’t quite ready to say, Because it might be a crime scene.

“I have a key to the second conference room,” Richard said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. “It’s down the hall from our office. We hardly ever use it because it hasn’t been redecorated yet.” He said, “Let’s go, everybody,” then walked purposefully toward the sidewalk.

“I feel a little dizzy,” Alonzo said, his voice low. “Sit down on the ground,” I commanded, quickly putting an arm around him. “Let me lower you.”

“I’ll help,” Donald offered. His voice cracked, too, but he had enough composure to take on half of Alonzo’s weight and get him down to the curb. “Try to breathe, Claggs.”

“I’m okay,” Alonzo replied weakly, when he clearly was not. He bit his upper lip and took several deep breaths. “We need to get inside—I mean, to the conference room, where Richard wants us. I just feel so . . . cold, all of a sudden.” He inhaled several lungfuls of air and then announced that he was getting up.

“Lean on me,” Donald directed, as he grunted and groaned, and finally hauled Alonzo up from the pavement.

We followed the others. Our footsteps made gritty sounds as we headed up the main steps to the office. I scanned the parking lot, but there was still no sign of emergency vehicles. I prayed K.D. was having more luck with Dusty than I’d had.

Once we were inside the building, our little brigade marched past the closed door to the office. There was no sign of K.D. At the far end of the dark hall, Richard ushered us into a dusty, scruffy-looking Queen Anne–style conference room. Dimly lit with filthy crystal chandeliers, the space had an oak floor covered with a navy-and-burgundy Oriental rug, an oval cherry conference table, a hidden sink, and a grit-covered glassed-in cabinet that housed wine and double–old-fashioned glasses, along with cups and saucers. Hanging on the walls between brass-and-crystal wall sconces were Charlie Baker drawings, these presumably less valuable than the actual paintings in the H&J lobby. Despite the grime, I liked this space much better than the cowboy-style insanity of the main office. But maybe clients wanted to be reminded they were in the West.

Richard began: “This woman I know called me and said she saw someone hurrying over from the law office. She thought maybe you were a burglar. Donald and Alonzo happened to be at my house, discussing a case, and came with me, as did K.D. We called Louise on our way over. Were you hurt? Was there an assailant outside our office? Had he gotten inside?” His gray eyes bore into me, at once concerned and wanting to get at what exactly was going on. “She said you were hysterical.”

“Well—” I began.

“This same woman said you banged on the door of that art-and-music store until it broke. Then you demanded that somebody call an ambulance and the police.” Again, his sharp eyes questioned me.

“I don’t know what happened, Richard,” I began, whereupon Louise Upton loudly cleared her throat. Well, tough tacks. I wasn’t going to call him “Mr. Chenault” when he had repeatedly told me not to. “Richard,” I went on, “I’m just telling you what I saw when I came in to start the bread for your meeting with clients tomorrow. Dusty was lying on the floor of the lobby.” I pressed my lips together and took in all their faces. “I think ...I don’t think ...I need to say that I very much doubt K.D. will be able to revive her.”

There was a collective intake of breath. Alonzo Claggett and Donald Ellis exchanged a glance.

“You don’t?” Richard’s unfailingly polite facade slipped for a moment. “You think she died in this office? Our office? You think our Dusty died here?”

“No,” Donald Ellis said. His face turned scarlet to the roots of his red hair. “This is our . . . we’ve been here since ...I don’t believe it. Dusty?” Tears welled in his eyes. Stupefied, he turned to glare at Alonzo Claggett. Alonzo covered his face with his hands.

Richard was having trouble staying composed. He licked his lips and stared at me. “Do you—you said maybe she had a heart attack? We could help K.D. with CPR . . . Dusty was too young—”

“I did CPR on Dusty for a long time,” I said. “It felt like half an hour but might have been less. It looked as if she . . . she had been . . . attacked.”

The conference room fell completely silent.

“She must have been associating with the wrong element,” announced Louise Upton, her voice steely. “Someone had to have followed her into our office. She must not have closed the door completely. Maybe it was a teenager, looking for someone to rob. He ran into Dusty and killed her.”

I tried not to think of how many times Arch had complained to me that when something went wrong, the first person suspected was always a teenager.

“Well! When Richard called, I was just leaving the Aspen Meadow Chorale’s performance of The Pirates of Penzance,” Louise went on blithely. “I guess I should have stayed home. Then I could have done something about this. Although I don’t know how I could have possibly envisioned such a thing happening to one of our . . .” She left the sentence unanswered.

“Has anyone called her family?” Richard asked, his voice barely audible.

“No,” I told him. “I just dialed 911.”

“What in the hell is this going to mean?” Alonzo looked up. His expression was wild; his voice high and querulous. “That is”—he struggled to put together his question—“what will it mean for the firm?”

“Alonzo,” said Richard, “you need to . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Goldy?” Donald Ellis, distraught, was fidgeting in his chair. His flushed face still bore the marks of tears. “Goldy?” Donald said again, placing his restless hands palm down on the rosewood table. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know.”

My answer hung in the air until finally, finally, sirens screamed in the distance.

I stood and took in the men’s grim faces. I said, “I have to talk to the cops. Please, don’t anyone go into the office.”

“Take my keys, Goldy,” Richard said. He handed me a gold key ring. When I looked at him, uncomprehending, he added, “You gave yours to K.D., remember?”

Louise Upton had left the table and was clanking around underneath the sink in the corner bar. She brought up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and clapped it down on the dusty bar, then squeaked open the cabinet and started pulling out glasses.

“Goldy,” Louise inquired, “do you suppose you could go get us some ice?”

I didn’t look at her as I opened the door. Before the door shut, I heard Louise say, “Richard, that girl never does a thing I tell her.”

I walked down the hall, out the main second-story entrance to the building, and down the steps.

In the parking lot, red, blue, and white lights flashed in the fog, which had become thicker and more frigid as the night wore on. I hopped onto the grass, and then hugged my sides as the icy blades fingered their way through my shoes, stockings, and pants. Vic had crossed over to this side of the street. He now stood alone next to Dusty’s Civic in the middle of the parking lot. He looked dazed. I walked up beside him and began waving in the emergency vehicles.

Cops and med techs spilled onto the pavement. When the first pair of policemen trotted up to us, I gave them Richard’s gold key ring and told them to take the medics upstairs, to the office of Hanrahan & Jule. There was a doctor on-site, I added. I asked the cops if they wanted me to come; they said no. As the paramedics traipsed up the stairs behind the law enforcement team, Vic made his way to the sidewalk. I thought he might try to follow the medics into the office, so I went after him. But instead of going anywhere, he stopped at the foot of the outside steps, then flopped onto the cold, wet grass. I sat down beside him.

“Vic? Talk to me.”

“I—I can’t. Is it really bad? Tell me it isn’t.”

“I’m not sure.” I hesitated. Finally I said, “Can I get you a drink? They’ve got some scotch upstairs.”

“No, no.” He sighed.

His voice was shaking. “What happened, will you tell me?”

I’d told the lawyers, hadn’t I? “I found Dusty upstairs. She ...she wasn’t breathing.”

“You found Dusty?” Vic echoed. “What do you mean? What was the matter with her?”

“I don’t know, except that she just wasn’t taking any breaths. But a doctor went right up to the office when I came over here. Now they’ve got a whole team of medics in the office.”

Vic uttered a stream of profanities and ran his large hands through his head of sandy curls. He didn’t seem to want to talk anymore, but I was still worried about him, and scooted over closer to where he was sitting. He abruptly stood and marched over to Dusty’s Civic, where he let out a moan. When I walked to his side, my feet crunched over glass. Great. The cops would say I destroyed one crime scene and mindlessly tampered with another. Gently, I put my arm around Vic. His body shook under my touch.