The Jezebel Remedy (11 page)

Neal inhaled so hard that it was audible, mouth-sucked a breath like a spelling-bee child about to embark on an obscure word, and he banged against the desk leg with a telltale shoe, and he fumbled through one front trouser pocket, then the other, until his search finally made it to an inside coat pocket, and he pulled out a folded
sheet of paper and spread it to full size. “Mr. Stone, I, uh, you know, if you do your own legal work, then you're your own fool, so I thought I should have my separate lawyer draw up the papers. I hope you don't think it's because I don't trust you, or I don't appreciate everything you've done.”

“Pardon?” Joe frowned, more befuddled than irritated.

“I, uh, figured it was my responsibility to get the papers written, and since it's legal business and you're a lawyer and I'm not a lawyer, I kinda went ahead and had the official stuff done elsewhere. Not because I didn't trust you or Mrs. Stone. I just thought I should. Thought it was required. Thought it was best.” He jigged his eyes in Lisa's direction.

“Well, sure, okay.” Joe slanted forward. “Could I see what you have there?” He took the paper from Neal and read it. “Neal, if you compare these, you'll see they're virtually identical. Word for word the same, okay? Most of this stuff comes straight out of a form book. All lawyers use basically the same template. I'd be happy to sign your version instead, if that would make you happy. Doesn't matter to me.”

“May I see it?” Lisa asked. She stepped to the desk and took Neal's paper from her husband. “Right from the book,” she said, but her voice was strained, the nonchalance forced. “Same form we use.” She shrugged, the beat between the rise and drop of her shoulders overplayed.

“Well, now I guess I don't know what to do,” Neal said. “Can I see 'em both?” He arranged the papers side by side on Joe's desk and finger-read each copy, mouthing and mumbling phrases as he went. “Yeah, okay, yeah, they seem totally alike to me.” He smiled, relieved. “And yours is already signed and notarized and mine isn't, and it's a Sunday, so there's a definite problem, so if it's legal and okay by you, I'll use yours and be on my way.”

“Whatever suits you,” Joe told him. “If you want, you can take ours and I'll execute yours and send it along to Atlanta. You can have a duplicate.”

“No need,” Neal assured him. “Since they aren't any different. I'm sorry for the trouble.”

“I wish you'd asked me about this before you paid a lawyer,” Joe said. “We could've saved you some money.”

“No problem,” Neal said. “I didn't mean to, uh, upset you or act like I don't trust you.”

“No, actually, Neal, I'm glad you ran it through your own counsel,” Lisa replied. “We probably should've mentioned it.”

“So I reckon we're finished,” Neal said. “I can't thank you both enough. On my behalf and my mom's. Don't know what to say.”

Lisa moved so she was in front of Neal. “I'll bet a silk-stocking lawyer like Brett Brooks cost a pretty penny, huh?” She'd spotted Brooks's firm name and address at the lower-left corner of the stationery, embossed in conservative black letters.

“Two hundred fifty dollars. It cost me two hundred fifty,” Neal said, the answer quick, hasty. “Yep, two hundred and fifty.”

“Huh,” she grunted. “That
is
steep.”

“Brett has a solid reputation,” Joe said. He cut his eyes to Lisa. “Of course Lisa's better acquainted with him than I am.” He flickered a sardonic grin at her.

“Uh, I just picked him from the Internet. Off the Internet. He's in Roanoke.”

“Good luck to you,” Joe said, standing as he spoke. “Stay in touch, and give me a call if I can ever do anything else for you or your mom's estate. She'll be missed. Henry County's a much more ordinary place with her gone.”

“Amen to that,” Lisa added.

They waited quietly—each understanding the other's silence—until they saw Neal's car pass by the office window, made certain they were alone before they spoke, lest they be overheard discussing business best kept to themselves. Joe typed in a Google search for “Ross Sanctuary” while they were killing time.

“Website says Don Beverly is their chief fund-raiser and serves as their treasurer. Maybe that explains the fancy nails. He owns a rescue papillon and a Lab. Plays golf. Married. Originally from Michigan.” Joe peeked over the computer screen at Lisa, then returned to Don Beverly's biography. “Huh…says here he's been with the organization since its founding in 1997.”

“Not exactly what he told us, but who knows, maybe he was just a volunteer or some such and they're counting his service prior to being hired. Or maybe the info's wrong. Half the stuff online is inaccurate anyhow.”

“Yeah.” Joe continued to explore the site.

“For damn sure, I plan to check with Brett Brooks in the morning and see if I can discover anything there.”

There was a small grain of unease in her tone that registered with a husband's ear. Joe stopped sliding and clicking his mouse and studied her. “Okay,” he said. “Let me know what you turn up.”

The next morning, she phoned Brett on her cell as she was driving to work. She veered into a Hardee's parking lot while the call was connecting, kept the Mercedes idling so she'd stay warm. A woman in a muddy Chevy LUV pickup spied her and blew the horn and waved. She looked familiar, probably a former client. The Chevy joined the other vehicles in the breakfast line, the truck's exhaust a steady, persistent cloud owing to the February cold.

“Brett?” she said when he answered his own cell.

“Yes?”

“Good morning. It's Lisa Stone.”

“Morning.” Brett was cagey. His voice gave away nothing.

“Are you where you can talk?”

“I am,” he said, still very formal. “Hope you're doing well.” He could've been speaking to his tailor or an insurance agent.

“Alone?” she asked.

“Yes.” He paused. “Just left the diner. A morning ritual. Everything okay with you?”

“Fine. I'm in a Hardee's parking lot. By myself.”

“Excellent. Hard to top the bacon, egg and cheese, though I avoid their burgers.” He chuckled.

“Listen. Do you know a Neal VanSandt?”

“Say what? Who?”

“Last name is VanSandt. First is Neal. You recently did an estate waiver for him. Joe, my husband, renounced any interest in Neal's mom's estate. Her name was Lettie. Lettie VanSandt.”

“No.” Brett was emphatic. “Doesn't ring a bell, and it's the kind of name I'd recall.”

“You're positive?” Lisa pressed him. “The document was on your firm's stationery.”

“Yeah. Why? I thought you were calling about our most important case, the Bahamian…affair.”

“It's this weird, loopy family, and we recently spent a red-flag afternoon with Neal and a Florida gent wearing tacky jewelry.”

“Huh. Sorry, this is news to me. If we did it, something simple as that, I'm guessing one of the associates handled it. Want me to check?”

“Please. Yeah.”

“What is it you need to know exactly?” Brett asked. The reception broke for an instant, caused a word to divide. “Did it go south on you? I'm not sure what you're after.”

Lisa watched the woman in the Chevy collect her order, an arm, shoulder and part of a visored head stretching out from the restaurant's rectangular pickup window with a bag and then a large cup. “I'd like to discover everything you can ethically tell me, Brett.”

“Okay. How come?”

The truck disappeared behind the building, came into sight again, and stopped near the Mercedes, separated by a sidewalk. A woman in jeans, black leather tennis shoes and a hooded down jacket got out and started toward Lisa. The woman was waving again, her hand held high and pistoning sideways as she walked, her smile tentative but friendly, her approach cautious, almost on tiptoes.

“Shit,” Lisa said. “Hang on.” She rolled down the window. She recognized the woman but couldn't recall her first name. She was a Fulcher, from Fieldale.

“Hi, Mrs. Stone.”

“Good morning,” Lisa said.

“I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all you done for me in my custody case. It's really turned out good. Them tutoring sessions has been a big boost for Odell, Jr., and my child support's comin' regular. Can't thank you enough. Not many lawyers woulda let me pay over time, either.” The woman had a lazy eye that wouldn't lock; it languished and drooped and sulked.

“Oh, great, I'm glad to hear it. I am. It's kind of you to mention it.” Lisa held the phone away from her face.

“Okay. Well, I hadn't run into you in a while, and I wanted to speak. My cousin was askin' about a lawyer a few weeks ago, and I told her you was at the top of the list.”

“Thanks.”

“I can see you're on the phone, and I don't want to be no bother. Gotta get to work. Thanks again.”

“Sure. You were at Stanley Furniture? Am I remembering correctly, Mrs. Fulcher?” Lisa concentrated on her healthy eye.

“Yeah, still there. Don't know for how long in this economy. 'Bout everybody I know is laid off. Everybody drawin' unemployment or goin' to the community college on the Trade Act. Gettin' retrained.” She laughed. “I reckon Henry County's gonna be full of fifty-year-old paralegals and computer programmers. Shame there ain't no jobs for 'em.”

“I'm glad you're still okay,” Lisa said sincerely. “Great news about your son too.”

“You have a blessed day. And I told you before you can call me Cassie.”

“Take care,” Lisa said. She waited for her to leave and returned to the conversation with Brooks.

“Wow,” he said. “That ought to make your morning, Lisa. Impressive. Not many of my clients track me down to offer attaboys.”

“It was very generous of her,” Lisa said. “So find out what you can about this case and the VanSandts, please. It's really spooked me.”

“Why? It was routine, right?”

“The timing's just too ticklish for me, with Nassau and everything. Plus Neal VanSandt gives me the willies, and his mother's been a thorn in my side forever. I want to be certain how this fits and that I'm not missing something important.”

“I'll check and call you as soon as I learn the details.”

“Use my cell, please,” Lisa instructed him.

Thirty minutes later, he informed her it was a simple, everyday transaction at Brett Brooks and Associates. “Bess Reed, one of the new lawyers here, handled it from start to finish. According to her, we were contacted by Mr. VanSandt himself, and he provided Bess the particulars over the phone. Very basic undertaking. Precisely as you suggested, he asked that we prepare a renouncement involving Joe Stone and this guy's mother. We did. Hell, you just print out the form and fill in the blanks. We mailed it to him in Atlanta. He paid us promptly by personal check. Which cleared.”

“Too freaky, too much coincidence.” She was sitting at her office desk, the door closed.

“It is odd,” Brett said. “But I see it as a warm-weather, pool-drinks-and-romance, stars-aligned charm: There you are slogging through yet another drab case, and who should appear but your buddy Brett with a sly valentine at the bottom of a will disclaimer. Not every suitor could pull that off.”

Lisa laughed. “You are so full of shit.” She hesitated, deadened her voice. “So there's nothing to this, Brett? Happenstance before a trip? A fluke? You give me your word? Because Lettie VanSandt has been my personal albatross for years, and everything about Neal and his hiring a lawyer is suspicious to me. I'm of a mind there might be more to this than a routine dab of paperwork.”

“Lisa, I swear, my hand over my heart, I don't have the first clue about these people, don't work for them, won't work for them, and I'm not part of any conspiracy, okay? From my end, there's no KGB in this, no Mickey Finns and trench coats. If I were orchestrating something sinister, why the heck would I send a guy to you with my name in neon on the paperwork? All I want to do is catch some sun and visit with you for a weekend and see where we go from there. Maybe try the fried lobster down at Arawak Cay. A cold Kalik beer. That's my only agenda.”

“Okay,” she said, still wary. “See you soon. I suppose.”

Shortly before shipping the remainder of Lettie's animals to Florida, Lisa and Joe had brought home their two cats and made a place for them in the barn. They'd put two oval fleece beds in the tack room, along with a feeder full of kitten chow and water bowls and several toys, mostly fabric balls and vaguely avian contraptions with colorful feathers and yarn legs. The cats were probably six months old when they arrived at the farm, two lads, Pancho and Lefty, all leaps and hisses and feints and bluffs and paws batting at everything, from flecks of dust to hayseeds to the occasional ladybug, their battles usually ending with full-throttle scampers through the stalls or pop-eyed dashes up a four-by-four post.

As Lisa was leaving early on a Friday morning for the airport, Joe under the impression that she and M.J. were taking a quick girls' trip to the Bahamas, she noticed only a single cat, Pancho, roaming next to the barn, and she stopped the car, concerned because she couldn't spot his brother, and she waited without any luck for him to appear and impatiently stepped out of the car and called his name but couldn't raise him, though Pancho interrupted his lark and stared at her, crouched, his tail twitching. “Shit,” she said, and despite realizing Lefty was probably in the loft, she traipsed from the Mercedes through the pasture, with its manure and muddy booby traps, her elegant, spindly heels sinking into the ground a time or two, until she located the missing cat sunning himself on a window ledge, doing as he pleased, ignoring her, and she was relieved to find him in good shape, and also relieved she wasn't traveling under a bad omen, some warning or obvious message that would compel her to stay home and scotch her plans, providence putting her to the test. She'd wash and wipe the shoes in the airport sink and be on her way.