Motion for Murder (11 page)

My eyes flitted to the odd pinched look on Wally's face.

"I've devised a new system." Howard left a dramatic pause for effect. When it had none, he cleared his throat and moved on. "I've decided to dispense with the secretarial pool. Each attorney will have his own girl. Melissa, since you've got the most seniority, you can choose whom you'd like to work with." He drew himself up and straightened his tie. Wally glanced up at him and straightened his tie, too. Ken began to snore gently.

"I'll work for Ken," Missy said flatly. Howard and Wally deflated.

"Guess I belong to you," Paige told Howard. "Don't go getting any ideas."

Like she might actually work or something.

I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. This corporate version of Spin the Bottle left me paired with Wally, but since I had the least seniority, there wasn't much I could do about it. Maybe he'd mellow as he aged. Or quit.

"Then that's settled." Howard put down the legal pad, capped the pen and slid it into his breast pocket, and took off his glasses. "Finally, I'd like to discuss the funeral." He paused for a dignified moment of silence, during which Ken continued snoring. Howard frowned in his direction. "Of course, we should all be in attendance. I'll be saying a few words at Hilary's request. The wake is Monday night and the funeral, Tuesday. We'll close the office, naturally. I've asked my wife to arrange for a luncheon at Darrow's afterward. Please dress appropriately." He seemed to direct this to me, although I couldn't see why, since Paige's skirt was presently doubling as a belt while I'd taken the time to dress in respectful mold tones. I'd never been to Darrow's, but I knew it was a favorite haunt of lawyers and doctors and other people with too much money, like auto mechanics. From what I'd heard, it specialized in overly rich sauces and undercooked steaks and ambience. Personally, I preferred the ambience of my own unpretentious kitchen. Now I had to go out and buy something suitable for Darrow's.

"That's it, then." Howard clapped his hands together, and Ken's chin snapped off his chest. "Let's get back to work, shall we? Paige, I want you to help me clear out Doug's office."

"I've got a lot to do," Paige said, which clearly meant she had a lot of lip pencils to count, since they were lined up on the table in front of her like crayons.

"I'll do it," Missy said instantly. She gave Ken a smile that would have melted his brain, if he'd been fifty years younger. "You don't mind, do you, Ken?"

He waved away the thought and pulled out his hankie to blot drool from his lower lip. "I should mention the barbecue will go forward as planned in two weeks. I hope you'll all see fit to attend. I think it's important to remain united right now."

"United. Yes." Howard nodded and looked pompous.

"Yes, indeed." Wally nodded and looked as pompous as a baby lawyer could look.

"I'll be upstairs," Missy said, shoving back her chair hard and stalking out of the conference room.

"I should get to work," Janice said, and stalked out of the room right behind her.

"I, um, need to, um," Donna said, and skittered out after both of them.

Ken turned and looked at me.

"You know," I said, shifting, "Donna does magnificent work."

Wally smirked. "How would you know?"

"Donna who?" Ken asked.

Hey, I tried.

At ten-thirty, I took my last pack of cupcakes into the kitchen for my morning break. Everyone seemed to be avoiding the kitchen; the orange juice and Danish were collecting dust in the conference room, and Howard had sent Paige for take-out coffee rather than brewing a fresh pot. Day-old dishes were sitting in the sink, and the cabinet where Dougie had kept his protein powder still stood open, the police having confiscated the can itself. It was too quiet and too full of Dougie at the same time. It wasn't long before the gruesome reel of Dougie's collapse began replaying in my mind. It was almost enough to kill my appetite.

By the time I'd finished the last cupcake, I'd decided I should try to put the kitchen right, so I rinsed and scrubbed and stacked and stored, and when I was through, it didn't remind me of Dougie quite so much anymore. It reminded me of my poor housekeeping skills.

I was replenishing the paper towels and exchanging used hand towels for fresh ones when the back door slammed open to frame Hilary Heath in black leather. Usually I can sense her impending arrival by the drop in room temperature, but this time she caught me by surprise, in more ways than one. Her gaze, usually direct and intense enough to cauterize, seemed distracted. Her skin was pale and mottled, and it took me a second to realize it was because she wasn't wearing any makeup except crimson lipstick.

I felt a flash of sympathy for her that pretty much disappeared when she opened her mouth. "Go get Howard, and bring him to me."

The dirty towels fell out of my hands. "All of him or just his head?"

The distracted gaze sharpened nicely and sliced into me. "What did you say?" She went right on the attack, a panther in stiletto-heeled black boots, covering the floor in long strides, stopping only when she had me cornered against the counter. That sort of aggressiveness is probably what had attracted Dougie to her in the first place. Well, that and the size of her bra. "I know you and that dimwit Paige were here when my husband died," she said. I leaned back and trembled. "I know that Howard killed him. What I don't know is how."

"Howard didn't do anything," I said, inching down the counter. When I was out of her reach, I scrambled to put the table between us. She might not look like Hilary, but she scared the hell out of me like Hilary. "They were arguing is all, and Doug—"

"Ah ha!" She jabbed a blood red nail into the air. "So it was about money! I should have known. It's always about money with Howard."

Not true. Sometimes it was about Wally.

"I can't remember," I lied. "It might've been about the commercials."

She propped both hands on her hipbones. It was a wonder she didn't slice her silk sheets to ribbons with those hipbones. "I like those commercials."

"So did Howard," I lied again. "He was just suggesting a more…" Sophisticated? Ethical? "…subtle approach."

"Subtle, my ass," Hilary snapped. Perhaps the wrong choice of words, since her ass was anything but subtle, it being Pilatesized and liposucked to the size of a peach, and shrink-wrapped in very unsubtle black leather. "Howard hated those commercials. Howard hated the way Doug did business." She splayed her fingers to display her diamond rings. "You see these rings?"

I shielded my eyes from the flash.

"My husband bought me these rings," she said. "My husband was a successful man with a lot of money. But Howard still wanted to kick him out of the firm. That's what they were fighting about, isn't it?" She narrowed her eyes. I inched closer to the doorway.

"If you feel that way," I said, "why'd you ask Howard to speak at the funeral?"

She recoiled. "What?"

Uh-oh. "Oh, I…" I'd stepped in it, is what I'd done. "I thought—but I could be wrong—I thought he mentioned you asking him to say a few words at—"

"Where is that little worm?" she demanded. "He's not saying a word at the funeral. If he's smart, he won't even show up. Is he in his office? I'm damned well going to speak to him. Maybe
you're
afraid of him, but
I'm
certainly not." She stormed down the hall, and I could have sworn I heard secretaries diving for cover.

I kept my mouth shut and let her go, even though she had it all wrong. Truthfully, I was afraid of
her.
She had a way of sucking all the air out of a room, and I was feeling lightheaded and trembly. Probably I should step outside for a second to get some air.

I yanked open the back door and fled.

*  *  *

"Where've you been?" Paige asked an hour later, when serenity had been restored to the office. Since Hilary was still upstairs, that likely meant Howard had written her a nice fat calming check. "Wally's been looking for you."

Great. "I've been outside. I'm not feeling too well." I flipped through the paperwork Wally had left at my desk. Motions and Answers to Interrogatories, a few from Dougie's files. Of course. The lawyer dies, but the inanity lives on.

"Yeah, she has that effect on me, too." Which proved Paige wasn't as dumb as she looked. She ran a lipstick across her lower lip and gave me half a shimmering pink smile. "You missed a good show, though. She was really on a tear."

"Tell me about it." I began stacking the work in order of priority: things I'd do that afternoon and things I'd bribe Missy to do for me.

"She accused Howard of killing Dougie." Paige rooted in her handbag, pulled out a bottle, spritzed her neck, and inhaled deeply. "Ylang-ylang," she said with deep satisfaction.

Whatever that meant.

"You know what?" she said. "I think she might be right. Howard can be pretty scary. If he was yelling at me, I just might keel over, too." She dropped the bottle back in her bag. "If I ever listened to him."

I sighed. "Where's Missy?"

Paige's eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. "Howard's still got her upstairs working. He wants to get Dougie's office cleaned out before Monday." She wrinkled her nose. "Why do you think he's in such a rush? The poor guy just died."

"Wally probably wants to spread out a little," I said, which wasn't close to what I thought. From the morning meeting, it was clear Howard wanted to scrub every trace of Dougie from the building, and he wanted to do it immediately. Maybe he had a guilty conscience.

The front door opened and Curt came into the waiting area, looking sharp in black jeans and black shirt and scuffed black boots. To anyone who didn't know him, he must have looked dark and dangerous. To me, he was the Food Guy, provider of pizzas, procurer of Chinese food. "What are you doing here?" I asked him.

"Oh, look," Paige said, "it's the poor man's Johnny Cash."

Curt gave her a look. "You know that lipstick's the wrong color for you."

Paige's hand flew up to cover her mouth as she ducked behind her computer monitor. One hand reached out to snatch a tissue from the box on her desk.

Curt turned to me. "Let me talk to you for a second."

I glanced at Paige. She was in the middle of a frantic remediation job, with her makeup bag open and her various lip pencils scattered. That could go on for a while, so I motioned for Curt to follow me into the kitchen. There, I motioned for him to join me at the table. When I was done motioning, I said, "What's going on?"

He slung his right ankle over his left knee and reached into his shirt pocket for a notepad and a cheap-looking pen with
Fat Eddie's Pizza
written in script on the side. Then he let me wait while he made a few entries on his notepad. When I was tired of waiting, I said, "Why are you here?"

He tucked the notepad back into his pocket. The pen slid in beside the notepad. He let out a long breath. He ran his hand over his chin. He looked like the Greek god Hades, without the light-heartedness, and I almost looked around for a three-headed dog. When he looked at me, his expression gave away nothing, but told me everything. "I talked to my brother this morning. They're still waiting on the toxicology results—"

"Oh, God," I said.

"—but it looks like Doug Heath may have been murdered."

I don't remember what I said at that moment, but it must have ended in yelling, because the next thing I knew, Paige was grabbing my shoulder, and Curt was grabbing my hand, and I was looking around the kitchen a little wildly because I'd probably destroyed evidence, and why had I seen fit to clean someone else's kitchen in the first place when I hardly cleaned my own?

"If you don't shut up," Paige said in my ear, "you'll bring Hilary down here."

That did it. I clamped my lips shut like a dental drill was headed my way. It was hard enough processing Curt's news on my own; with Hilary at hand, it would be impossible.

Curt swung toward her. "Hilary Heath?"

Paige shrugged. "The human stiletto herself. She's upstairs with Howard."

"She hates Howard," I said, though I don't know why I said it.

"She loves his checkbook, though," Paige said with a smirk. So I wasn't the only one imagining a fat payoff to the grieving widow.

Curt touched my shoulder. "I've got to get back to work. You all right?"

I nodded. "No."

"Maybe I shouldn't have said anything," he said. "But I thought you should know." I nodded. Paige frowned at us, trying to put the puzzle together without all the pieces. "Let's wait for the official word, okay? Then you can decide what you want to do." I was in full bobblehead mode, incapable of speech. Curt squeezed my shoulder and stood.

Comprehension lit Paige's newly-painted face. She jabbed me with her elbow. "Are you pregnant?"

That did what talk of Dougie and autopsies couldn't: snapped me out of it. "
What?"

Curt chuckled, which didn't confirm or deny. Typical man.

"It happens," Paige said. "Were you using protection?"

"Paige—"

"Doesn't matter if you were. These things fail. Trust me. You think you've got all the bases covered and
wham
, a two-run triple, right up the middle."

Someone was outright laughing. It wasn't me.

"Well, you are dating the nice man in black," Paige said. "Aren't you?"

"We are not dating." I was probably more forceful than I needed to be. Curt didn't seem offended. Too busy laughing. "He's my landlord."

"Sweet." Paige took a step back to appraise Curt from head to toe. "He's got good bones, but he could use a little fashion advice."

"Like never wear white Nikes after Labor Day?" Curt said.

"Be snide if you want," she said. "Seven dates a week can't be wrong."

I blinked. "
Seven
dates a week?" I couldn't manage seven dates a month. Even Dougie hadn't had a batting average that high. Before he was murdered. My stomach twisted at the remembered image of him collapsing onto the floor, dead.

Curt's eyebrows lifted. "That what you call the boys down at the Black Orchid? Dates?"