What Laurel Sees: a love story (A Redeeming Romance Mystery) (11 page)

Judge Simons leaned down intently. “Can you tell me—how do you know that, Grace?

Grace dropped her head a little. It seemed she’d realized she might have said too much. “I’m not supposed to...” Grace’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s a secret.”

“Well, I know it’s important to keep secrets,” Judge Simons replied. “But this time, you really need to tell me. You see, I have a very important decision to make, and I need to know everything that can help me to make it.”

Grace squirmed in her seat.

Shana waited what seemed an eternity.

Judge Simons sat back. “Tell me. What makes you think you’ll end up with your mother, Laurel?”

Grace raised her eyes toward the judge. “Mommy told me that God said we’re going to be together. She saw it in a vision.”

Shana let out a small gasp. A sidelong glimpse at Laurel said it all. Laurel’s hand flew to her mouth. She turned to Bennett Flynn in what Shana could only describe as alarm.

Shana raised her head. She closed her eyes and drew in a heartened breath. In ways beyond her childish understanding, perhaps Grace had just made their case.

Joe ambled out onto the courthouse grounds. There was Debra, standing there, her arms crossed. Joe slowed to a stop in front of her. “Why are you here?”

“Number One, because I read your story,” she said. “Because you’re going soft on her.”

“I am not.” He shot a look toward the other reporters, huddled on the courthouse steps. He did not have to stand for this treatment.

“Look, Joe. I am not shelling out twenty-five hundred for an homage to this woman’s sainthood.”

Joe scrunched his face. What was she even talking about? “I never called her a saint. And Number Two? I assume there’s a Number Two?” His cell phone rang.

Debra gestured toward his phone as he took it out of his pocket. “Number Two, your brother called me, because he’s trying to reach you. He says it’s urgent.”

  Joe checked his caller ID. Indeed, it was Clay. No doubt, the calls he’d missed while his phone was off in the courtroom were also Clay’s. Exactly what Clay’s definition of urgent was, he could hardly imagine. Joe answered. Ah. Just what he needed. Clay started babbling nonstop about his rights being violated. He was downtown, being questioned by the police. Great.

As quickly as he could, Joe extracted himself from the conversation with his brother. He hung up, shoved down his anger and looked back at Debra. “I’ve got to go.”

Debra set her hands on her hips. “You like Laurel, don’t you?”

Joe ran his fingers through his hair and yanked at a clump. “Is that where this is coming from? You’re threatened?”

Debra bore down. “This is about the work, Joe.”

“No. This is about you punishing me.”

Debra swished her head aside, then barreled a look right back at him. He hadn’t seen her this ticked in a very long time.

She let out an exasperated breath. “You really don’t get it, do you? You don’t mean that much to me,” she said. She pointed a finger in his direction. “See, Joe, the flip side of being the monumental commitment phobic you are is that no one gets all that attached to you, either.”

“You really want to get into this, now, Debra?”

There was no stopping her. Not when she got her dander up like this.

She laughed, derisively. “You know, despite what you may have concocted in that vivid imaginative mind of yours, Joe—you represent a surprisingly insignificant part of my life. You were a momentary lapse in judgment.” She threw her arms up. “A blip. On the other hand, I am, as of this moment, still your employer. Period.”

“So—” As usual, he could hardly get a word in with her.

She wagged that finger at him again. “So, find your objectivity, find the angle, or find yourself another job.” Hotly, Debra brushed by.

Joe checked his watch. The precinct wasn’t that far away. He loathed making himself available at his brother’s every beck and call. Yet, dread still rolled over him like a locomotive. What had Clay gotten himself into this time?

Joe exited the police station with his brother. Why Clay would have opted to stage a one-man protest against Oliverio’s Restaurant for hiring Tom Zoring, Joe could hardly figure. If Clay was so amped up about Zoring getting employed on the outside, why hadn’t he shown at the parole hearing? If he had, maybe Zoring wouldn’t have been paroled in the first place.

All Joe could figure was that Clay had a mind of his own. Joe had asked Clay to come to Zoring’s parole hearing. So, naturally, Clay had refused to come. Clay had to live life on his own terms. Then, just like always, Clay expected Joe to come running when it all blew up in his face.

Joe hustled Clay down the stone steps.

“You should have seen it, Joe. Your little friend, Adele, was there, covering the whole thing.”

“Yeah, that’s great, Clay. Just great.”

Clay gestured wildly. “I got this massive crowd all whipped up, in front of Oliverio’s. Cleared out the whole restaurant. So—get this—Oliverio, he cans Zoring. On the spot. Of course, the crowd went nuts, especially when the cops came to cart me away.”

Joe checked his watch. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Really.” Clay stopped in his tracks. “I think we should sue. They obviously couldn’t arrest me. But they force me to sit there and listen to their bogus lecture, all about how Oliverio was supposedly performing a public service for some program to hire ex-cons.”

“You made yourself a nuisance. You disturbed the peace. You’re lucky they didn’t charge you.”

Clay stopped in his tracks. “Are we forgetting that Zoring is a convicted pedophile?”

Joe slapped his own forehead. “Really. Wow. I didn’t know.”

“Families go into that restaurant. Little kids.” Clay put up his hands in defiance. “I don’t care what they say. I’m the one who was performing a public service. I mean, what kind of a fascist state is this when I can’t tell Oliverio’s customers just who is in there, doing their dishes?”

Joe slumped. As frustrating as Clay was, he did have a point. “Okay. Believe me. I don’t like that Zoring is out any more than you do. But he’s out. Now, you’ve gotten him fired. There’s nothing else we can do. Can you please just let it go, now?”

Clay shook his head, fuming. “The guy ought to be stripped down and hung.”

“Yeah, well...” Joe felt the will to fight drain out of him. “From here on out, I think I’d prefer not to hear the man’s name again. It’s a free country. You do what you want. Say whatever you have to say. Just do me a favor and don’t drag me into it.”

With that, Joe turned on his heels and jogged toward his SUV. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his brother. It wasn’t that he was any less horrified by the acts that Tom Zoring had committed. It was only that, for some reason Joe didn’t entirely understand, he knew he had to get back to the family courthouse immediately—not really for
Kickerton Press’s
sake, but for Laurel’s.

ten

L
aurel took her seat in the courtroom, beside Bennett Flynn. She gazed around the gallery at the returning press. Joe was nowhere to be seen.

Now, it was nearly time for Judge Simons’ decision. Her chest ached within her just to think of what it might be.

What little she’d taken the time to eat during the recess knotted in her stomach. Worry was like that. It never did her any good. Once again, she tried to release her anxiety. She encouraged herself to live in the faith that she claimed. Somehow, everything would work out to the best. It had to.

The bailiff appeared. As he called for everyone to rise, once more, Laurel glanced behind her. There was Joe, slipping in the door. Just in time.

Laurel turned back as Judge Simons took his seat behind the bench. He acknowledged Shana and Laurel equally. Nothing in his body language gave his decision away. But it would not be long now.

Simons rested his elbows on the bench. He looked down at the case file in front of him.

Two words flew into Laurel’s mind:

Trust me.

Just as quickly, doubt reared its torturous head. Had that really been God’s voice? Or had it just been the voice of her heart, raising false hope?

Soberly, the judge raised his eyes to address the court. “Though I am sensitive to the need to expedite this matter, especially for the sake of the child, I think it would be prudent to allow more time for the investigation into the death of the father to unfold before making this ruling.”

Laurel’s breath caught in her throat. What did this mean? Did he, too, consider her a suspect?

“Therefore,” the judge said, “I am continuing this case indefinitely.”

Laurel shot a questioning glanced at Flynn.

A murmur ricocheted across the gallery.

The judge silenced the court with a rap of his gavel. “I will revisit this decision just as soon as appropriate custody arrangements can be determined with more confidence than is possible now. Until such time, the child, Grace Fischer, will remain in the care of Mrs. Shana Fischer, who will allow supervised visits from Ms. Laurel Fischer once a week.” He banged his gavel again, and swiftly took his leave.

Laurel sat back. She grasped the arms of her chair, but it did nothing to settle the tremor that coursed through her body.

By the time Laurel made her way out of the courtroom, Shana and her attorney were already encircled by waiting press. Photographers rapid-fired pictures.

Shana looked so poised, so victorious. She spoke into the extended microphones. “Ultimately, I know for a certainty that Frank would have wanted me to raise Grace, but please be assured how personal this commitment is for me. I deeply love this child and I will continue to fight for her as my very own.”

Laurel’s vision blurred. How had this gone so wrong? She turned to flee and bumped right into a waiting journalist. Joe.

Wordlessly, Joe directed her gaze just down the hall. There was Grace, with no one but Helen Reed at her side.

As quickly as she could, Laurel pushed her way through the clash of reporters.

A microphone was shoved in her face. “Ms. Fischer, would you give us a statement about the death of your ex-husband?”

“No comment,” Laurel said.

Behind her, she heard another reporter. “Laurel, how do you feel about today’s outcome?”

She couldn’t bear to look back. She couldn’t deal with their questions, not when there was the possibility of a few precious moments with Grace. Already, Grace had seen her and was moving in her direction, her little face shining.

Laurel gathered Grace up into her arms. She rocked her side-to-side, drinking in her nearness. Cameras flashed and rolled all around them, but Laurel didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was pouring every ounce of love that she could into her daughter. It would have to be enough to last them a long while.

Grace whispered into her ear. “Mommy, did we win?”

“Not yet, Gracie.” Laurel kissed her daughter’s cheek and set her down. “I tried really hard, but...”

Grace’s face fell. Her blue eyes brimmed. “But I told the judge.”

Laurel took her hands. “I know, Baby. But he says we have to wait, at least till they figure out what happened to Daddy.”

All too soon, Shana strode over to them. Laurel could hear Howard Berg advising the press that there would be no more questions taken.

Briskly, Shana stepped toward her nanny. “Helen, could you help me get Grace to the car?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Helen stepped to Grace’s other side.

Shana leaned down to Grace’s level and stroked her head. “Grace, Honey, we’re going home, now.” With a hand to Grace’s shoulders, she guided the girl away. As Grace looked back, a tear tumbled down her cheek.

Howard Berg extended his business card to Laurel. “Laurel, if you’ll call me on Monday, we can set up your visitation schedule.”

Absently, Laurel took the card, her focus still rapt on Grace. Quickly, Laurel raced to catch up with them. The media pressed in as Laurel leaned over toward her daughter, tracking with their every step. “Sweetie, it’s okay. You go with Shana and Helen, and I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”

Grace dissolved into sobs. “But Mommy...”

Shana stopped. She leveled Laurel with a glare. “Do we really need to put her through this in front of the media?”

“Please, Shana. Just give me a few seconds with her. That’s all.”

Shana’s expression tightened. She looked away, relenting for the moment.

Laurel stooped down and set her knee on the floor. She took Grace’s reddened face in hers. “Baby, look at me.”

Grace looked up, trembling.

Laurel pressed her hand to Grace’s heart. “We are never apart, the two of us. Not in spirit. Not for a single second. Remember that, no matter what.”

Grace lifted a hand and placed it over hers. She bit at her lips.

Laurel kissed Grace’s hand, then placed it into Shana’s. “I need you to be good for me, okay?”

Grace nodded.

“I love you so much, Sweetheart. I’ll see you soon.”

Where she found the strength to tear herself away, Laurel didn’t know. But she felt herself rise and step to the side, allowing Shana and Helen to lead Grace toward the courthouse doors.

Grace turned back once more, a distant longing in her eyes, but it was only a moment before Shana hurried them out of sight. Laurel fought to maintain her composure as cameras clicked all around. Numb as she was, Laurel could hardly move. She felt her attorney take her arm.

Flynn addressed the surrounding press. “We have no comments, except to ask you to respect Ms. Fischer’s privacy.”

Step-by-step, somehow, Laurel put one foot in front of the other as Flynn led her out of that place. Her heart crumbled to pieces within her. She had allowed herself to hope, and now that hope was shattered.

Joe leaned against Laurel’s car. What kind of a profession was he a part of, where one person profited from exploiting another person’s pain? At least, for his part, he’d given Laurel the distance she seemed to have needed. He’d withdrawn from the crush of journalists that encircled like vultures, ravenous for a statement.

For a moment, he wondered. Would Laurel have given a comment to any of his competitors? No, he decided. How odd it was to be so sure of that. He was only beginning to get to know Laurel, but as hard as he’d looked, there didn’t seem to be a duplicitous bone in her body. She had promised him exclusivity and he would trust that was that.

Suddenly, there she was. Her attorney, Bennett Flynn, gave her a consoling handshake, then got into his sedan.

Slowly, Laurel turned Joe’s way. Her face was traced with something he could only describe as anguish. She’d lost her ex-husband and now her own daughter had been denied to her, all in the space of a week.

Joe had to hand it to her. This woman had uncommon grace. Considering the circumstances, she had held it together quite respectably inside. But now, as she walked toward him, with every step, he could see her falling apart.

By the time she reached him and looked into his face, she dissolved completely into tears. She could hardly get her words out. “I know you need me to...to talk to you,” she said. “But...I just can’t.”

Joe nodded. “It’s okay.” This was no act. It was grief, plain and simple.

Laurel covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God...” Sobs wracked her slender frame. She shook, what seemed uncontrollably.

Joe found himself at an utter loss. How could he even attempt to comfort her, but then again, how could he not? Where the impulse came from, he didn’t know. But almost before Joe knew what he was doing, he had taken Laurel into his arms. He held Laurel close as she wept. Gently, he brushed his hand against her back.

At least for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared. That was, until he raised his eyes and saw someone, watching them from a distance.

Debra.

Joe sat at his desk, his chin propped up on his thumb. Debra had varying degrees of ire. She also had no compunction about displaying the full array of them at the office. Usually, Joe could pretend to listen and shut the worst of it out. He thought he’d run the gamut of her emotions. But the bulge of that vein in her neck, it told him that her current rage, it was ascending to a whole new level.

She strode across his office, flinging her arms out to her side. “What do you mean you didn’t get a statement?”

Joe continued to type. “I mean she said no.”

“Come on, Joe!” She was over-enunciating, as if he couldn’t hear or understand. “We are paying her.”

Joe gave his head a sardonic tip. “Somehow, I don’t think that twenty-five hundred covers a total invasion of privacy.”

Debra’s eyes flashed. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “But I still had a soul last time I checked.”

She sputtered derisively. “There is nothing inhumane about getting a simple reaction.”

“I guess that depends which side of the decision you’re on.” Joe searched through the piles of work on his desk.
Where was his notebook?

Debra set her hands down on his desk. “We are the press, Joe. In case you’ve forgotten, we don’t take sides. And we don’t make physical contact with our subjects.”

“Where is...” Joe checked his desk drawer. There was his notebook, right where he had left it. “Look, she trusts me. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? I promise I’ll go by tonight. I’ll get something. I just wanted to give her a chance to deal.”

Debra scoffed. “Yeah, give her a chance to compose, rewrite, rehearse and take any shred of honesty out of it.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some hack.”

“Yeah, well don’t act like one.”

Usually, this was the point in one of their spats when Debra would abruptly leave, triumphant over having had the last word. This time, she just stood there, gawking at him.

Joe laced his fingertips. He shook his head and lifted his brows. “Debra, you know... I used to think you were pretty. I really did.”

As soon as he let those words out, he knew it had been a mistake. It had been true, but it was below the belt to say that kind of thing. Plus, as wounding as that barb had been, she would definitely retaliate.

Debra’s mouth dropped. She whirled on her heels and stormed toward the door. As he might have guessed, she turned when she reached the jamb. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her.

“I pity you, Joe. I do.” Her voice was as low as her spirits seemed.

When he looked up at her, the saddest kind of smile wilted to nothing on her face.

She leaned against the doorframe.  “You know, Joe... You have this picture of yourself like you’re this really great catch, waiting for somebody, anybody to discover the stand-up guy you’re convinced that you are.”

Joe scraped one fingernail against another. He’d crossed the line. He would have to sit there for whatever Debra had to say.

An unsettling stillness came over her. All the emotion drained from her voice. “You think you know where you’re going, Joe. You know what’s what and you’re just...” She lowered her gaze, then raised it again. “You’re lost, Joe,” she said. “You really are. You’re lost.”