Fortunes of the Dead (44 page)

“Was that okay with you?”

“It's not like he asked.” She wiped her lips and the coconut disappeared.

“Do you think he seriously suspects you of having something to do with Ned's death?”

She shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Really? Even after tonight?”

“You'd have to know the guy, Lena.”

It was funny the way she said my name. It reminded me of the way my sister used to say it. Other things about her were reminding me of Whitney. Her confidence. Her air of knowing what was what.

“He's just trying to cover every base and stay in control of something that scares him shitless. I can understand it. I can let it go. But I want you to work for
me
. What I need to know is how much you charge. And what you think this case will cost, in the long run.”

“I charge fifty-five dollars an hour and pay my own expenses unless something really unusual comes up, or we start getting into travel and airline tickets. Then I'd discuss it with you first.”

“Unusual like what?”

“Usually the money starts flying out the window when you hire consultants—attorneys, doctors, forensic experts. And I guess if you needed me to fly to, say, Paris, France, or something, I might need you to help out with the airline ticket. Paris, Kentucky, is on me. As to how many hours, it's hard to say. They add up pretty fast. I can always work to your budget—as in, stop when the money runs out. Limit my areas of inquiry.”

“I have a proposition. How about I give you my car?”

“The BMW?”

“Yep. And in return, you spend a lot of time following up every possible area of inquiry, and if the case takes weeks or months, you work it. And you take care of all expenses no matter what comes up, including Paris, France.”

“You mean the BMW?”

“Yeah. I can sign it into your name tomorrow, if you want to meet me at the courthouse.”

“Sounds like I'm being overpaid. Or is there a lien I have to pay off?”

“I own it free and clear. There's no way I can get a good resale value out of it with that big dent in the side. And I don't have any kind of cash available. And I expect to get a lot of work out of you. It would be nice for me to know no matter how expensive it gets, I'm paid up, and I don't need to get Clayton in the middle of it.”

“What are you going to do for a car?”

“I have a '94 Jeep Wrangler I was saving for my daughter. It's paid for. I can keep banging around in that. It's what I was driving when I met Clayton. The Roadster used to be his, then he decided to get a new car and the dent took a lot out of the trade-in value so he just gave it to me. And you can sell whatever you're driving now, and keep that money to cover your expenses.”

I didn't tell her that would net me about one thousand dollars, if I was lucky.

She shrugged. “Think about it. Have another attorney look over this document.” She passed an envelope across the table. “There is a confidentiality thing in this agreement, wherein you agree not to divulge the gist of the conversation the two of you had. You and Clayton.”

“I wouldn't do that anyway.”

“You did to me.”

“That's true. But I wouldn't to anyone else.”

“Clayton is what you might call anal. And he can't draft an agreement where he doesn't get some kind of concession. Like you said, he's a lawyer. Also, I had to let him put that in there so he'd draw up this fee document, between you, me, and the BMW.”

“I'm seriously tempted.”

“I can throw in some free dance lessons, if that would help.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Lately I have taken to smoking cigars, a habit I clearly share with Emma Marsden. It is a terrible habit, especially considering that I can only afford cheap cigars, the kind that will bring everyone in the room to harmonious agreement—be they Democrats, liberals, Republicans, warmongers, pro- or anti-choice, for or against the death penalty—the agreement being that the kind of cigar I can afford is disgusting. If I were smelling it instead of smoking it, I would be disgusted too.

On the other hand, I appreciate that the cigars have wooden tips, and are slim and black and slightly sweet. Nothing so good as chocolate, but still good. And although they pollute my lungs and the atmosphere, and add certain intriguing elements to the more feminine' aspects of my personal scent—vanilla lotion and Escada perfume—they do not have calories, they do not make my abdomen swell so that my jeans are tight, and are for these reasons much better than chocolate. This is how women think, and I am a woman. If you are a woman or you know one who is honest, you are not surprised.

Cigars are good for people like me who eat for three reasons: hunger, boredom, and the need for distracting stimulation, which is different enough from boredom to have its own category, but still close.

I think it is the ritual of smoking cigars that I like, as well as the rebellion. I had a very southern upbringing, which means that beer and cigars are not the norm if you are female. In my family, even beer was unusual. It was bourbon and cigars, but that was for the men. Mixed drinks were highballs. My sister and I drank beer in college to annoy our parents and prove something, but our parents were fascinated and encouraged us to order beer whenever they took us to dinner. My dad would order a beer too, and my mom would taste ours but didn't like it. For Mom it was Diet Pepsi or nothing, which is much worse for you than beer, which at least has B-12.

I was quite delighted when Emma Marsden insisted on me taking the BMW home for the night, so long as I was willing to drop her off at her house. We made an appointment to meet at the courthouse before lunch the next day to transfer the title of ownership from her to me, and for us to sign the letter of agreement in regard to my services.

Her house was out of my way, but driving the car was what I wanted to be doing. It was a 1999 Z3 Roadster, automatic, with antilock brakes, a CD player, and a power convertible roof. There was a small slit in the plastic rectangular back window, right along the crease where the plastic folded when the top was down. I didn't much care. We drove out Main Street, away from town, until it became Richmond Road, and we followed it through the strips of restaurants, dry cleaners, and apartment complexes, past Lexington Mall and Home Depot, past the Man of War intersection that led to Homburg Place, where Emma Marsden taught ballroom dance at an independent studio, past the highway access to I-75, past a Waffle House, a Holiday Inn, and the Solid Gold Men's Club, to Athens, Kentucky, where Emma had her house.

There was something about it. A bit tumbledown, but solid, red brick, with a thrusting front porch (yes, there was a porch swing) and lights in the window. It reminded me of my little place in Chevy Chase (the lesser end of that neighborhood), and her place, like mine, clearly needed work. Still, for pure potential you couldn't beat it. I had realized, after living in my cottage for a while, that some people look at old houses and see what is there (mold in the corners of the ceiling, cracks in the plaster, hardwood floors that have been loved into scratches and dents, linoleum floors that need to be peeled up to reveal the heart of pine underneath). I see what the house can be. I see it so clearly I forget what it really looks like, which makes me slow at renovation work, but content with what I have. I would rather have a run-down old cottage that is seventy years old and needs a shit-load of work than a brand-new house that is bigger. I'm not sure why that is, except that it seems to me a matter of presence, and charm, and happiness in the details. An arched doorway that leads to ten-foot ceilings and cracked walls and an electrical system that is nothing short of dangerous is my idea of home. Perfect drywall, carpet instead of battered wood floors, and tiny little twig trees just starting to grow have less and less appeal to me the longer I stay in my house.

As soon as I pulled into the gravel driveway, the front door opened and a teenage girl stood behind the screen door, watching.

“That's my daughter, Blaine. Would you like to come in and meet her?”

What I really wanted to do was see the inside of the house. Now that I am working on my own, I like to see what other people are doing with theirs. I hesitated, but the teenage girl walked out onto the porch. Her face, lit by the outside light, was heart-shaped and breathtakingly beautiful—or would have been if she'd had a more pleasant expression. She tapped her wrist like she was pointing to a watch, though she was not, in fact, wearing one. She gave both of us a stern look.

I glanced over at Emma. “Out past your curfew?”

She laughed. “Clearly. Come on in, she doesn't bite.”

“No, thanks. I need to get home.”

“If you change your mind about the car, and taking the job and everything—”

“I won't.”

“See you at the courthouse tomorrow.”

I waved at Emma's daughter, who waved back but did not smile, and heard her say “Who
is
that, and why is she taking your car?” as soon as Emma was on the porch. I backed out of the driveway without looking back, feeling that
you-are-in-so-much-trouble
sensation I hadn't had since I was a teenager myself.

I put the top down at the first stoplight, even though it was cold, and turned the heat on full blast to keep warm. I caught two teenage boys looking at me from the front seat of a Camaro.

“Nice car,” they said, heads bobbing to the thrum of music.

I smiled. And hit the accelerator as soon as the light turned green, leaving them two car lengths behind. I have always loved a powerful engine.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

In the best of all possible worlds Joel would be just walking up the sidewalk to the front door when I pulled into our narrow driveway (paved, to Emma Marsden's gravel, but who's keeping score?). He wasn't. Second best, he would have been sitting in his favorite chair in the living room and getting up to glance out the window. But no, he wasn't home. He'd
been
home, though, because somebody had turned out all the lights I'd left on when I headed out late that afternoon. It's a fate thing—light-leaver-oners always do seem to mate up with light-turner-off-ers.

I hate coming home to a dark house.

My cat was right at the door when I came in. The days when I would have had to snatch him up by the tail as he raced outside to a world forbidden to indoor cats are long gone. John Maynard Kitty is about as old as the economist he was named after.

He nudged his head at my calf, and croaked. His mews deepened into croaks about three years ago. I picked him up, gently with old bones, and turned on the foyer light. He blinked and dug his claws ever so delicately into my shoulders. He did not like being left in the dark.

I turned on the lamps in the living room. The maid service had come, not Joel. They had turned off all the lights, not even leaving on the smallest lamp for my kitty. And they'd rearranged the furniture in the living room again, which pissed me off. I did not like cleaning
crews
. I much preferred the lone cleaning professional who likes to be paid in cash, takes longer to do the work but does a better job, and who doesn't wear a uniform. But Joel is in charge of the cleaning service, and we have other things to argue about. If it was left up to me, we wouldn't have one. Of course, if it was left up to me, we wouldn't clean.

I don't mind a clean house, if only people would
let my stuff alone
.

I moved the furniture back where I wanted it, because, yes, I had actually put it that way for a reason, and picked Maynard up and carried him into the kitchen. He can walk, of course, but these days he prefers being carried, so long as it is me who is doing the carrying.

I poured dry kibble in a bowl and mixed it with real tuna fish—StarKist, white tuna, packed in oil. Maynard has started losing weight, and it worries me. The vet says his teeth are okay, but he really scarfs down the tuna and I am trying to fatten him up. I am waiting on the result of blood work to see if he has a thyroid problem. He has lost way too much weight, especially since he eats a lot of junk food, courtesy of me, and should therefore be pudgy. Maynard and I have long been crazy about potato chips (salt and vinegar my favorite, sour cream and onion his). The vet visit turned into a senior wellness checkup, long overdue I guess, but the bill came to two hundred and thirty-five dollars. Which would not have been a problem if I had gone to work for Clayton Roubideaux, instead of Emma.

On the other hand, that
was
a BMW in my driveway.

I had a new CD of Brazilian music, which I put in the player. I felt so good that I started up the gas grill outside, and headed for the laundry alcove off the kitchen. The hamper was overflowing. And, if left to Joel, it would take days to get it done. One thing you can say about me is that I am efficient. Whereas Joel would sort the laundry into seventy-three little piles that were not even allowed to touch each other, much less be washed together, I just washed everything in cold water. I opened the top of the washing machine, stuffed in a full load, and set the dials. What took Joel at least eight to ten loads, I could do in three. Sometimes two, if there weren't a lot of towels. Was Joel ever going to be surprised.

He was late—around eight-thirty, and he hadn't bothered to call, which he usually did, but I wasn't mad. We both have those kinds of jobs. Cops don't work regular hours, and neither do private investigators. And Joel, moving up in the rank of detectives, often worked late to clear the paperwork from his desk. He likes to leave a clean desk before he leaves the office. I find this odd, since it'll just get messed up again the next day, but there is no need to be critical.

Dinner was ready by the time I heard Joel's key in the lock. One load of clothes was in the dryer, the other sloshing through the wash, and I was curled up on the couch smoking one of the cigars I had found in Emma Marsden's glove compartment. I mean,
my
glove compartment. I had planned, when I saw them, to return them to her tomorrow, but later I had gone out and brought them into the house. I thought that Joel and I could have a celebratory smoke after dinner.