Motion for Murder (20 page)

As if on cue, Ken wandered in from the kitchen, looking preoccupied. He was dressed for court. Since he didn't seem to notice me, I stood up to get his attention. "Ken, do you have a minute?" He glanced at me and shook his head. I gave him an engaging smile. "A second?" He shook his head again. Guess I wasn't that engaging. He brushed past me, so I followed on his heels like a puppy. "I was just typing one of Donna's motions," I said, although I'd been doing no such thing. "Do you have any idea what an excellent paralegal she is?"

"No raises this year," he said.

I forced a laugh. "She's not looking for a raise, Ken. She wants to appear in court again, that's all."

He stopped midstep, and I stopped just short of an embarrassing collision. "Why? Does she have outstanding warrants?"

He must have missed his nap. "No, she doesn't have warrants; she's not a criminal. She's a paralegal. And a good one," I added, in case he hadn't heard me the first time.

"Oh." He shrugged. "Then there's no reason she can't go to court, is there?"

"No, there is not." I smiled. "Can she go with you this morning?"

"No," he said, and disappeared down the hall.

Well, it was a start, and a pretty good one at that. I headed for Donna's office to fill her in, full of pride and vindication, when I heard Janice in her office speaking to someone. Angrily. I stopped outside her door and bent down to adjust my stockings, even though I wasn't wearing any. The door was slightly ajar, giving me a clear view of her desk, where she sat clutching the telephone with white knuckles and glaring at the desk blotter. Her free hand was tapping a pen in a sharp staccato rhythm on her desk. "I already told you, I had to allocate funds for new computers," she was saying.

I really needed to shave my legs more often. They felt like I actually was wearing stockings.

"When we got new computers, we got new software," she said in a tight voice. "When we got new software, we got new training. These things cost money, Art."

I blinked and straightened. The last time Parker, Dennis, and Heath had sprung for new computers, George W. Bush had been in office. Our software capability was only a step above manual typewriting. And our training had consisted of Howard tossing the manual on Missy's desk and telling her to read it.

"I can't help it if the firm's bleeding money," she snapped. I took a step back, stunned. What with the lawyers' fancy cars and ritzy suits and pricey lunches, I'd assumed their no-raise policy was a matter of cheapness rather than necessity.

"I don't care what Douglas told you," she said. "He hadn't been generating significant revenue for several years. Yes, I know about Flannery. Did you know Flannery's held up on appeal?"

I'd heard enough. I had plenty of money issues of my own; I didn't care to learn I was working on the Titanic. Janice could lie all she wanted about her imaginary new computers. I hurried back downstairs so I could earn a paycheck while there was still one to earn.

*  *  *

I earned it for a good five hours or so, shuttling clients in and out, serving coffee and tea and the occasional bottle of water. Then I spent the rest of the day wondering about the Black Orchid and office equipment and other mysteries of Parker, Dennis, and Heath. It seemed like the pieces weren't fitting anywhere, with anyone. Dougie was dead, Janice was lying about computers, Paige was evading about the Black Orchid, Missy was stewing in post-Dougie anger, and Donna still wasn't back in court.

And then there was Hilary. By the time I'd driven home and trudged up the steps to my apartment, exhausted from all the confusion, I wasn't too surprised to find her waiting for me on the landing. She'd swapped the leather look for suburbanite wear: white slacks and a light pastel sweater. She still managed to look terrifying.

She glanced at her watch, a thin gold band with a Chiclet-sized black face, while I reached for my keys. "Do you always get home this late?"

"It's five-fifteen." I pushed the door open. "What are you doing here?" And where was Curt? There was never a delivery driver around when you needed one.

She followed me inside. "I want an update."

"Okay." I bent to gather my mail from the floor. "My feet are killing me. and I have a headache."

"That's not what I meant." She snatched the envelopes from me and flipped through them casually. I don't know what she'd been expecting, but she didn't find it, because she gave the pile back to me with a little shrug and sauntered into the living room. Where my sofa bed lay open and unmade, as usual. "What a charming apartment." She ran a finger across the top of my television. Visions of Mommie Dearest danced through my head.

I dropped the mail and followed her. "You can't just waltz in here like this. I want you to leave."

"Did you get into Melissa's home yet?" She paused at the bathroom door, assessing my linen choices. Her nose crinkled, but her Botoxed forehead remained glassily smooth.

"No, I haven't." I reached past her to slam the door shut. "And it might interest you to know that some people think Paige killed your husband."

"Some people." She turned her cobra-like stare on me. "Who?"

"I'd prefer not to say."

She snorted. "Melissa." She crossed to a window and pushed the curtain aside. Probably checking to make sure her Mercedes was still there. "I don't know why you insist on defending that little tramp," she said, still considering the view.

"It's that innocent till proven guilty thing," I said. "Why are you so sure it's not Paige?" Not that I thought it was Paige. I just didn't think it was Missy. At least I hadn't, until Braxton Malloy's phone call. Then there was Janice with her fictional computers, which made no sense. Now all I was sure of was a growing headache and the need to get Hilary out of my apartment.

She was ignoring me. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have bothered me to be ignored by Hilary, but I'd prefer she did it somewhere else. Like…

"Have you ever heard of the Black Orchid?" I asked.

Her hand faltered on the curtain. "I'm not sure." Her voice was not half as smooth as her smile when she turned around. "Why do you ask?"

So we were going to play dirty. I shrugged. "I heard Missy mention it before."

Hilary's smile collapsed and fell off her lips. "Get dressed."

I blinked. "I am dressed."

She looked me up and down. "Don't you have anything better to wear than that?"

I was wearing my best suit, minus the stockings, which I'd jabbed a hole in while getting dressed and hadn't replaced, and substituting a skirt for the slacks, which I'd spilled chocolate ice cream on, but still, I thought I was put together pretty niftily.

Hilary sighed as she broke into motion. "Come on."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I said, following her only so I could nail the door shut behind her and hang a crucifix on it.

"I'm going home to put on something more appropriate," she said.

"Me, too," I said. "I'm putting on a pair of pajamas."

"Don't you want to know about the Black Orchid?"

I did, but I wasn't that easy.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob and turned, looking at me with knowing eyes and a hard little smile. "If you want me out of your life, you'll
"

"Give me five minutes," I said.

The first thing I noticed was the music. Throbbing, pulsing, with a stifling bass line that hammered at my skull from the inside out. The second thing I noticed was the semi-nude people. You might think I had my priorities screwed up, but the place was as dark as a cave and smelled like burning leaves, and it took a second for my eyes to adjust and the decadence to register.

I turned to Hilary. "I'm not dressed for this."

She shrugged. "I tried to tell you." She'd gone back to Dominatrix Hilary. Her heels were high, her vinyl was shiny, and her lipstick was scarlet red. I, on the other hand, looked like June Cleaver in a bad place.

A tall blond man-child strutted past, wearing nothing more than a metal-studded leather thong and nipple rings and a headful of Sun-In. Following closely behind, by virtue of a leash and a collar, was a stringy man wearing nothing but a piece of black macramé and a leather hood with cutouts in the places appropriate to sustain life. Which was ironic, because if I were ever seen in that getup, I'd certainly want to die.

"Hil!" The blond swooped in and gave Hilary a wet kiss on each cheek while Dog Boy instantly dropped to all fours beside him. "What brings you here tonight?"

"We're playing Nancy Drew." Hilary grimaced in my direction. "This is George." She tweaked one of his nipple rings. "I'm looking for someone. Melissa…" Her eyes cut back to me, searching for a last name.

"Clark," I said, trying not to look at anyone or anything.

"Melissa Clark. Sounds dreadfully dull. I don't think I know her, but you should ask Roddy." He cocked his head. "How you doing, Hil? We all miss Douglas dreadfully. You hanging in?"

She shrugged. "What else can I do?"

It was all very touching. But in the midst of the sentimentality, it didn't escape me that Dougie had been to this place, was familiar to these people. I closed my eyes against the image of him in a thong and nipple rings or worse, on the wrong end of a leash. I sneaked a peek at Dog Boy, who was sitting on his haunches wide-eyed, looking like he'd just messed on the new family carpet. It was enough to make me give up sex. If I ever had sex.

The blond tipped his head toward me. "You breaking in a newbie, Hil?"

"Hardly." Hilary sniffed. "Look at her."

They chuckled together while my eyes trailed down the leash again. I figured I was doing all right; I might be dull by their standards, but at least there were no leather hoods in my closet. Dog Boy fixed his big brown eyes on me, and I think I saw sympathy in them. Or maybe he just wanted a bone. Anyway, he inched toward me on his shins with an expression that made me wish for a rolled-up newspaper. That kind of sex, I didn't need.

"You could use a makeover, hon," the blond told me. "Dreadfully. Let me take you to the dungeon and
"

I didn't hear what awaited me in the dungeon, because I was distracted by a familiar face off to my right. Paige, strapped into a black vinyl jumpsuit gleaming with buckles and dotted with strategically placed cutouts, taking a stroll in five-inch heels on a fat man's back. She looked like a sadistic Catwoman, and if those cutouts revealed the real thing, I could see why Batman had always had the hots for her.

"Oh. My. God." I closed my eyes and opened them again, and Paige was still ankle-deep in pasty rolls of fat.

"Honey, everyone says that at first," the blond said. "But it's not so bad. I'm telling you
"

He wasn't telling me anything I wanted to hear, even if I'd been listening. I was too busy connecting the dots between Paige and Dougie and the Black Orchid, and while I was at it, Hilary, too. Clearly she was no stranger to this world. All her silk blouses and designer bags couldn't compensate for the depravity on parade here. So that explained the second story man at Hilary's house. Maybe the grieving widow was really the black widow.