Motion for Murder

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MOTION FOR MURDER

by

KELLY REY

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Copyright © 2014 by Kelly Rey

Cover design by Yocla Designs

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

To Bob. For knowing how my mind works and staying with me anyway.

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I knew right away that it wasn't going to be a typical day at the law firm of Parker, Dennis, and Heath. For one thing, there was only one client waiting in the reception area when I got to work, a huge man in a ketchup-stained T-shirt with a pelt like a squirrel and work boots that spoke to days spent hiking in landfills.

For another thing, that client was holding a gun.

I saw only three ways to handle the situation. Three became two when I saw I had a dead cell phone. My next option was to approach him calmly, discuss his issues coolly, and dispatch him to the nearest police station quickly. Or make a hard left, flee to the kitchen, and hide behind the refrigerator until braver souls took charge. That's why I was hugging the SubZero when Missy Clark came in the back door. Missy had been a secretary with the firm for a lot of years, and she'd seen a lot of things. But a colleague cowering beside a major appliance wasn't one of them, and it stopped her in her tracks.

"Hey, Jamie." Her right eyebrow lifted. "What're you doing?"

"Ssh." I cocked my head toward the reception area and put my finger to my lips in the universal gesture for
Be quiet—can't you tell there's a kook with a gun out there?

Missy tiptoed over to squat beside me. "What's going on?"

I pointed. "There's a gun out there with a house attached to it."

She took a peek. "Adam Tiddle." She sighed. "He's harmless. He's mad because we didn't take his case. He thought it'd make him a millionaire. He's been showing up ever since Dougie turned him down." She shook her head. "I told him it was going to bite him in the briefs."

"I don't think biting is what this guy has in mind," I said. "Unless chewing and swallowing are involved. I'm not going out there until he's gone."

Missy shrugged. "He's not as bad as he looks. He was in a car accident."

"I've seen him," I said. "No car accident did that."

"His neighbor was changing a flat, and Adam was holding up the car," Missy said.

I nodded. "And the jack broke?"

Missy looked puzzled. "What jack?"

Oh.

"That's the problem. There's no negligence there except for his own. He just doesn't get it." She pushed herself up. "I should call Dougie and warn him."

Dougie was Douglas J. Heath, Esquire, commonly known in secretarial circles as Dougie Digits for the creative and offensive use of his eleven fingers. Thank goodness the eleventh was only an extra pinky finger. I shuddered to think of the damage he could do with another thumb. Dougie had a penchant for spandex and a predilection for ogling secretaries in sundresses. He was the approximate weight of a garden gnome, with a perpetual swagger, and arms that formed two hairy parentheses to his torso. Dougie had once sued a Chinese restaurant for causing a stress disorder because its fortune cookie had predicted grim tidings, and that pretty much tells you all you need to know about Dougie.

Before Missy could pick up the phone, the gnome himself burst through the back door, all pink and flushed with the effort of hustling the six feet from his Mercedes. Everything left Dougie pink and flushed. He broke a sweat lifting his bottle of vitamin pills. Dougie wore the most expensive shoes, the most beautifully tailored suits, and the priciest haircuts, and he still looked like the sleaziest personal injury lawyer in town. He was holding a DVD in one hand that was either a memorialization of his weekend escapades or a copy of his latest commercial. I've seen his commercials. I wasn't sure which would be worse.

His eyes narrowed when he saw me and widened when he saw Missy. All men reacted like that to Missy. Probably because she was five-nine, and five of it was legs. "I don't see any computers in the kitchen, ladies. And it's too early for lunch, Winters."

A flush of embarrassment started at my belly button and washed upward. "You're probably wondering why I'm hiding next to the refrigerator," I said, but Dougie wasn't paying attention. He was too busy looking at Missy. "That top does amazing things for your cans, Clark."

Missy didn't even flinch. She gave me a sidelong look that might or might not have included a wink, tore a paper towel off the roll, and handed it to him. "Here. Clean yourself up. You've got someone waiting."

Dougie brightened and blotted. "A new client?"

"Hold on, you probably shouldn't—" I said.

Missy ignored me. "Yep. Sounds like a live one, too."

"Hot damn, and it's only Monday." Dougie swiped the towel across the back of his neck and dropped it on the counter beside his video. "Teeth?" He peeled back his lips for Missy's inspection.

"Teeth," she agreed.

His lips snapped shut. He adjusted his tie, straightened his lapels, ran a hand through his hair, and patted Missy on the backside. "Make me a protein shake, will you, doll? I'll be right back."

"If you're lucky," Missy muttered, yanking open the refrigerator.

I just sat there, feeling like I should be doing something, as long as that something wasn't following Dougie into Adam Tiddle's orbit. So I measured a half cup of Dougie's protein powder into the blender for Missy while ogling the bare-chested model on the label—he was probably a louse, too. A stench rose from the blender, and I clamped the lid on to stifle it. Judging by the odor, Dougie's daily protein shakes tasted like Adam Tiddle's boots.

Missy had gotten as far as slicing a banana when we heard a shout and the clatter of Bruno Maglis in the hallway, and then Dougie was back, panting, sweat running down his artificially bronze cheeks. His eyes were a little wild. "You could've told me Tiddle had a gun," he said to Missy. "I can't believe you didn't tell me Tiddle had a gun. He could've killed me out there! Do you really hate me that much?"

She probably did, but Missy didn't confirm or deny. She dropped the banana pieces into the blender and hit a button, serene as the Virgin Mary, and watched Dougie's protein shake slop around for a few seconds.

He turned to me, hands propped on his hips. "Did you know Tiddle had a gun?"

"I didn't know it was Tiddle," I said, which wasn't quite the same thing.

"Christ." He shook his head, snatching the glass Missy offered him. "You broads are too friggin' much. Good thing he forgot to load it."

That explained the yelling. Probably Adam Tiddle, out of frustration. As slippery as Dougie Digits was, you didn't get too many shots at him. So to speak.

Dougie drank half the shake in one motion, let out a ripping belch, and left his upper lip unwiped. Between the protein shake and the makeup, his face looked like a color wheel. "I threw the dumb country fuck out," he groused. "Next time he sets foot in here, call the cops." He fixed me with the death stare. "That means you, too, if you can stop humping the refrigerator long enough."

"There's nothing going on between me and the refrigerator," I said hotly, but Dougie had gone back to his protein drink. Probably a good thing. There was a cheesecake in the fridge that might say the fridge and I had something very real. But that was for another time. I got out of the kitchen before Missy had the blender rinsed out.

My desk was squeezed into the reception area with Missy's and the firm's third secretary's, Paige Ford, who hadn't graced us with her presence yet. Probably got lost on her way to work. After all, she'd only been with the firm for six years. I dropped my handbag beneath my desk and sat staring at Adam Tiddle's empty chair while I pondered the meaning of life. I'd like to say I arrived at some stirring realizations in those thirty seconds, but I'd be lying. Instead, I noticed the small white envelope propped against my computer monitor and forgot all about Adam Tiddle. It was an invitation to the senior partner's house for the annual firm barbecue. According to Missy, Ken Parker held the affair every August in his private Xanadu, nine rural acres complete with rolling hills, stables, and an in-ground pool with Jacuzzi. Since I'd only worked at the firm eight months, this was my first invitation. I tucked the invitation in my bag and suspended all thoughts of resigning for the moment. I was just shallow enough to want a glimpse of how the other half lived before I slunk back to my downscale apartment and rued my decision not to attend law school.

Also, I wanted more of that cheesecake.

I switched on my computer and sat back to admire my surroundings while it booted up. It wasn't an unpleasant place to work, once you got past the lawyers and the staff. The partnership owned the building, a rehabbed Colonial within walking distance of the courthouse and all the downtown power restaurants. Lawyers upstairs, tucked safely out of sight from bill collectors and disgruntled spouses. Secretaries downstairs in the line of fire. Basement reserved for closed files and Dougie's gym equipment. According to Missy, Ken Parker's wife had done the decorating. Lots of navies and burgundies and creamy whites. And for the lawyers, lots of mahogany and leather. Ken Parker and Howard Dennis had wanted to create the impression of understated wealth, dignity, and integrity for their practice. If you overlooked Dougie Digits, they'd succeeded.

Thing is, Dougie Digits was hard to overlook. Believe me, I've tried.

I hefted an expandable file off the floor beside my desk and settled in for an exhilarating eight hours of typing Answers to Interrogatories. Interrogatories are written questions that have to be answered by both plaintiffs and defendants, things like: What were you looking at two seconds before you tripped over that crack in the sidewalk and fell four years ago? This is the glamorous side of being a legal secretary. Because I was the rookie, the less desirable jobs like typing multi-paged motions and Answers to Interrogatories fell to me, and I let them fall. I like to think it was because of my emotional maturity, but I suspect it was because of my lack of assertiveness. My sister, Sherri, always exhorted me to open my mouth for something other than eating, but when you're five-three and weigh only ninety pounds, you can't afford to waste that much energy. I know what you're thinking: such a problem to weigh only ninety pounds. Let me give you a different perspective on it. I'm thirty-three, and I still wear training bras.

Before too long, Paige showed up, grunted hello and disappeared into the kitchen for her coffee break, having exhausted herself from the three mile commute. That was all the conversation I could handle from Paige, so I stayed where I was, typing away diligently, until my interoffice phone line buzzed and I was summoned to the conference room.

The whole staff was there when I arrived, their expressions reflecting varying degrees of pain, the reason for which soon became apparent. Dougie had connected his laptop to the flatscreen and was punching keys with that gleam in his eye that signified the unfurling of a new commercial spot. Usually after one of his commercials appeared, we were overrun for the next week by lunatics with dollar signs in their eyes. I wasn't looking forward to it. Dougie's existing clients were scary enough.

Ken Parker, the elder statesman and founder of the firm, had been given the seat of dubious honor in front of the flatscreen. Ken was slipping into old age with a grace reserved for the very rich. Tennis and sailing preserved his trimness, daily naps preserved his stamina, and hair like a Samoyed, thick and white, preserved his handsomeness. He had the reputation around the county for being a few degrees short of plumb, but he had more integrity than anyone I'd ever met and the sort of gentlemanly good manners most women have only heard about in rumor.

The third partner, Howard Dennis, was standing by the window, punching numbers into his cell phone and looking self-important while the firm's associate, Wally Randall, openly adored him. Howard was built like a bathtub with fangs, and he kept them sharp chewing on the secretarial staff. If I had to choose between a night with Howard and a night in hell, I'd start shopping for a fan.

Wally was Howard's pet lawyer, and he was kept on a choker. Wally didn't use the bathroom if Howard didn't rubber stamp it first. He was tall, dark, and awkward, with wrist bones like radio knobs, and knees that clicked and popped like castanets. You heard Wally coming well before you saw him. He claimed this was due to college football injuries, but I knew better. I knew it was from crawling around behind Howard.

The bookkeeper, Janice Iannacone, was closest to the door, looking like she might make a run for it. This was her usual post during office meetings. I used to think it was Dougie's commercials that made her so sour, since she knew better than anyone what they cost the firm. I came to learn she was sour because she detested everyone and everything. Including her ex-husband, or maybe because of him.