Choke (19 page)

This stuff is getting old. I need to do something.

Immy decided Mother needed to lawyer up. She called the attorney Hugh had used for the restaurant, a corporate attorney in Wymee Falls by the name of Stinton Ogilvie Braden. It only took a few minutes to get through to him, and he agreed to meet Immy at the Saltlick station. Immy drove the van there, although she knew she would beat him by at least twenty minutes.

While Immy cooled her heels in the lobby, Tabitha shot suspicious looks her way. It was no wonder, Immy thought. If she herself saw someone get dragged to the station and questioned as much as Hortense, she might start to consider the family had some bad blood in it. But this was her family, the Duckworthys. There was no bad blood, dammit. There couldn’t be. That might mean Drew would have gotten some, and Immy knew Drew didn’t have bad blood. Drew had stubbornness and precocity and her own ideas that sometimes didn’t make much sense, but her sweet daughter had no bad blood.

Hortense kept a picture of herself and Louis, her late husband, on her dresser. It was Immy’s favorite, and she looked at it often. It was a shot of them hiking Palo Duro Canyon in Hortense’s younger, slimmer days. The wind caught her hair just as the camera snapped. Her face was turned slightly toward Louis, and his was tilted down toward her. Such a handsome couple, and they looked so happy.

For the most part, they were happy together, as Immy remembered. The only big dissention she recalled was that Hortense hadn’t wanted him to go into law enforcement. She had relented, though, as his career progressed and even bragged to people about him being a policeman and, eventually, a detective.

Her life was shattered when he was killed. Immy would always remember the way Hugh had had to pry her fingers off the railing of the hospital bed to get her out of the room so his body could be removed. It was after that Hortense started eating. No one in the family tried to stop her. She refused to talk about her husband for several years. Immy hadn’t said the word Daddy in front of her for three years.

Then, two years ago, Hortense decided to celebrate his birthday. She baked his favorite cake, chocolate yellow marble, and slathered thick chocolate frosting over it. She lit candles and made Immy join her in singing “Happy Birthday to Daddy.” Immy managed a few bites of cake, and Hortense ate the rest, or maybe she threw it out. At least it was gone the next morning.

Immy had shut herself in her room after the weird, uncomfortable non-celebration and cried herself to sleep, sure that her mother had finally lost her mind.

But after that occasion, the subject of her father, Hortense’s husband, was no longer avoided, and Hortense began to talk about good memories and Immy’s dear, dead, sainted father. Their lives went on.

“There’s not much I can do,” Stinton Ogilvie Braden said to Immy after he’d been in to see Hortense. “I’m not a criminal lawyer.” From the looks of his suit, he was a successful one, though.

“Well, you’re our only family lawyer. Can’t you help her?” Immy didn’t like the way Tabitha was cocking her head toward them, pretending she was doing paperwork. “We need to talk somewhere private.”

They left the lobby and got into his Lexus. “This is better,” said Immy. “So, we need a criminal lawyer? There are criminal charges?”

“I’ve already called a colleague who should be here shortly,” said Mr. Braden. He was a long, lanky man whose head nearly brushed the top of the car. His accompanying aroma, eau de tobacco, permeated the soft leather they sat on. “Woman by the name of Sarah Joyce.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Joyce. Her name is Sarah Joyce.”

“OK.” Immy supposed having two first names was better than having three last ones, like Mr. Braden. “How’s Mother holding up?”

“She told me she’s feeling hungry. I’ll have Joyce bring a sandwich in to her. Is there a shop here where we can pick one up?”

“I can make one at home. It’s closer and cheaper than the All Sips, and Mother just bought groceries. What’s happening in there? Are they torturing her? Rubber hoses? Tasers?”

“Of course not, Imogene.” He lit a cigarette but had mercy and rolled down his window.

“I guess not, at least while you’re there.”

“Your mother will not be tortured. She’s sitting comfortably in a chair, and they are asking her questions. I’ve advised her not to answer any until her counsel arrives.”

“She needs to come clean and tell them everything that happened. Unless…you don’t think she killed Uncle Huey, do you?” There, she had said it.

“That’s not my place.”

“You do! You do think she killed him.”

The lawyer twisted his thin frame around so he faced Immy. “To tell you the truth, I do not think she did, but what I think has no bearing on her case. I’m not going to represent her. From the little she told me, I rather think she has an idea you might have done it. The chief also thinks her initial lies about being in the vicinity were probably to protect you.” He turned to face front and started the engine. Immy could barely hear the purr. “Shall we get your mother something to eat?”

Immy had had inklings that her mother might suspect her but hadn’t put it together with Hortense’s actions. So the lies all were to protect Immy? That did make sense. It also made sense that Hortense had murdered Huey, unfortunately.

They drove to the trailer, where Immy slapped together a baloney sandwich and grabbed a lunch-sized bag of chips. The chips were procured for Drew’s lunches but were usually eaten by Hortense, since Drew wasn’t crazy about chips.

Braden steered his black Lexus back to the station and pulled up beside its twin, only this one was silver. “Looks like Joyce is here,” he said. Did all lawyers drive Lexi? Immy wondered. She also wondered if Lexi was the plural of Lexus.

A small, wiry black woman in a blue silk suit jumped out of her car as they approached, scurried over to them, and grabbed Immy’s hand.

“Glad to meetcha. Sarah Joyce.” Her voice was tiny, childish almost, to match her size. “And you’re Imogene. We gotta situation here, huh?” She rubbed her hands together, returned to her own car and pulled her briefcase from the back seat, then darted to the police station door, holding it open for Immy.

Mr. Braden moved like a tortoise next to Ms. Joyce’s hare, Immy thought. She hoped the woman was as efficient as she seemed. She had enough energy to get the job done, anyway.

Tabitha ushered the new lawyer behind her sacred door, and Mr. Braden said he had some business to go over with Immy. He patted the leather briefcase he had carried in from his car.

He answered her look of alarm with, “Civil business, not criminal.”

“I don’t understand. This is a criminal matter, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, but, as you know, I was the attorney for your uncle, Mr. Hugh Duckworthy, in his business endeavors. I brought along a copy of his will, since I knew I’d be seeing you here.”

“Uncle Huey’s will? Why would I want that?”

“Perhaps because you’re his principal beneficiary.”

The front door opened, and Ralph walked in. “Hey, Immy. Just finished patrol.” A huge grin lit his face. “Five more days.”

“It’s just dinner, Ralph.”

“I know.” His smile didn’t dim a single watt.

Immy wasn’t sure if this was an occasion that called for introducing people or not, so she erred on the side of politeness. “Ralph, this is the family lawyer, Mr. Braden.”

The lawyer rose to his full height, which matched Ralph’s, and they shook hands. Immy lost sight of Mr. Braden’s thin hand in Ralph’s paw. The two men may have been the same height, but it would have taken two Mr. Bradens to balance a Ralph on a scale.

“Ralph Sandoval, police officer for Saltlick,” said Ralph. “Are you here for Mrs. Duckworthy?”

“Not exactly. Another attorney has been engaged for her. Do you mind if we carry out a civil transaction here? I need a witness’s signature, too, so maybe you could provide that, if you have a moment.”

“Sure,” said Ralph. He shoved a chair next to Immy’s and dropped into it.

Mr. Braden opened his briefcase and drew a sheaf of papers from it. “I’ll need your signature here, Immy, and your initials here and here.” He handed Immy the papers and his heavy gold pen, then flipped pages as she signed.

“If you would be so kind,” he said to Ralph, who obediently inked his signature on the witness line on the last page.

When the signing was complete, the lawyer shuffled the paper a bit and handed Immy some of the pages. “This is your copy,” he said.

“But what does this mean? I haven’t read it.” She opened her purse to stick the pages in. She intended to read them later. They looked too long to read here. “I inherit something?”

“The main provision states that you inherit the business. You are the new owner of Huey’s Hash. There is no stipulation—”

Immy jumped to her feet. “What? I own the restaurant?” Her purse tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents. “I don’t want the restaurant.” She couldn’t own the place. She didn’t even work there anymore, and she was glad about that.

Ralph knelt down and started scooping up Immy’s things.

“You don’t have to keep it,” the lawyer said. “If you’d like to put it on the market, I can—”

“Holy shit.” Ralph’s voice was soft. He slowly raised his eyes to Immy’s. “Holy damn shit.”

Immy had no idea what his problem was. Ralph held a wad of bills in his hand, some of the money Baxter had given her. Could he tell it had come from Baxter? Why should that upset him so?

Ralph stood. His voice assumed a deep, steely authority she had never before heard in it. “Stay right there.” He turned to Tabitha. “Get the chief. Now.”

Immy sank to the hard plastic chair. “What is it, Ralph? What’s wrong?”

She felt a cold snake of fear slithering up her spine. What had she done?

* * *

“BUT I DIDN'T STEAL ANYTHING,” Immy said for the third, maybe the fourth, time. She had lost track.

“Let’s start at the beginning one more time.” The chief’s voice was getting weary but not as weary as Immy’s. Her mouth was dry, and she felt slightly dizzy. The ceiling fan, barely stirring the stale air in the interrogation room, had the most annoying buzz.

When Ralph handed her money to the chief and fanned it out, she had seen that there were checks stuck in between some of the bills, but she had no idea where they came from or who they were made out to. They must have been in the money when Baxter gave it to her.

“I was at the park, having a picnic with my daughter, Nancy Drew Duckworthy.” Immy was careful to speak into the mike.

“You don’t have to repeat her full name every time, Immy,” said Chief.

Ms. Joyce piped up. “She’s following your instructions, sir. She’s relating everything from the beginning.”

Hortense had been released when Immy had been brought back for questioning. After a quick consultation in which Immy couldn’t tell the lawyer anything because she had no idea why she was being questioned, Ms. Joyce had said she would sit in on Immy’s session. It was comforting to have the little bulldog of a woman beside her.

“Go on,” said Chief with a sigh.

“OK, so Baxter Killroy saw us at the park, and he pushed Drew for a while in the swing. She loves swings. Then Drew saw a friend from her preschool and she…”

Immy noticed the chief’s eyes were closing. “OK, so I told Baxter about my fine for the fire damage. The five hundred dollars? And he said he’d like to help me out.”

“What was the reason for this unbelievable offer?” asked Chief. “What did he expect in return?”

Immy hadn’t been completely honest about this yet but decided maybe she should fess up. “Can I speak with my attorney? A sidebar?” Maybe if she told all, the snaky feeling in her spine and the pool of liquid acid roiling her stomach would both go away.

“A sidebar is something you do in court,” said Ms. Joyce. She shot the chief a belligerent look, and he eased out of his chair and left the room.

“So, is the room bugged?” said Immy.

“Probably not, but we can go outside, if you’d rather.”

Ralph was assigned to keep an eye on them while they paced the sidewalk in front of the station. Ms. Joyce seemed incapable of standing still. It was mid-afternoon. No clouds hindered the sun, and the day was turning warm. Immy had to work to keep up with the small woman’s movements.

“It was sort of blackmail,” said Immy. She told the lawyer about her and Baxter agreeing not to say either of them had been at the motel in Cowtail for the drug bust, but then it became known that she and her family were there, so he had no hold on her.

“Sounds more like a bribe.”

Immy realized she had better brush up on her technical terms.

“They probably know Killroy was there, too,” said Ms. Joyce. “He’s on the verge of being charged with drug manufacturing. I know the guy representing Killroy’s partner, the one they picked up in Cowtail the day of the fire. Good job exposing them, by the way.” Joyce’s smile was quick and bright.

“Omigod. He paid me the five hundred to keep it quiet that he was there. I wonder if he thinks I sang.” The snakes slithered inside her.

“Sang what?”

“Turned stool pigeon. Ratted him out. Are you all right?”

Ms. Joyce appeared to have indigestion. “It’s your terminology. Bothers my stomach.”

Immy hoped the lawyer wasn’t ignorant of legal terms.

“So the money with the incriminating checks came directly from Killroy,” said Ms. Joyce. “He most likely stole it, but they can’t put him in the restaurant for the murder. I called his attorney on the way here, and he told me Killroy admits being there the next morning and robbing the place, but he says he only took the charity box by the cash register, the money earmarked for United Way. Killroy says he didn’t open the cash drawer.”

“We never had that much in the charity box. Isn’t it possible he’s lying?”

“Of course. He almost certainly is, and that’ll be our angle.”

They returned to the still, airless room, and Ms. Joyce argued the position with Chief. Immy worked on not throwing up.

“Let’s summarize,” said Chief, looking at the lawyer while he addressed Immy. “You’re saying you got the money from Killroy, who stole it while he was in the restaurant the morning after Hugh’s murder. Killroy says he stole some money, but not that money. That money started in the cash drawer, dammit, or at least the checks with it did. Those checks are made out to Huey’s Hash on the day Hugh died. It was a Monday when he was murdered, and the bank says he made his deposit Saturday. That’s your story? “