Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas (7 page)

Joanne got her emotional nurturing from her dad, a sensitive man who wasn’t ashamed to tear up over a beautiful sunset or write love notes to his wife and leave them on her pillow. She grew up a daddy’s girl whereas Shannon always strove to be a clone of their mother. Sometimes Joanne wondered if her sister strove to emulate their mom because she didn’t know how else to be close to her.

“Do I smell…cookies?”

Shannon slid a heat-seeking-missile glance around the room, locking in on the enemy cookie plate within nanoseconds. Alcohol might slow others’ response times, but not her sister when it came to detecting evil calories.

“They were a housewarming gift.”

“Jo-Jo! That plate is
half
empty. Do you know how much fat—”

“Shut up,” Joanne said as gently as her tense jaw allowed. “We’re both going through difficult times right now, so how about we play nice. I won’t quote drunk-driving statistics if you don’t quote cookie calories. By the way, I’m driving you home in your car when you’re ready to leave. You can treat me to a cab ride back.”

Shannon’s bottom lip protruded a little. “I’m sorry. Please don’t tell Josh. It’ll never happen again.” She raised her fingers in a Girl Scout salute. “Promise.”

Joanne sat on the edge of the desk, thinking how funny that was as
she
had been the Girl Scout, not Shannon who refused to join because she hated the uniforms.

But looking at her sister’s sad face, and those big eyes welling with fresh tears, she couldn’t help but feel sympathy. So what if her sister drove her crazy most of the time, right now she needed a friend.

“Okay, I won’t tell him. So what happened?”

In a rush of words, Shannon explained that she’d gone shopping yesterday for a “super-cute” metallic gold Prada mini-shoulder bag that was on sale, adding that she also picked a make-up kit for Joanne. “It’s called Red Hot, with make-up for redheads with freckles, but that’s not what made Josh angry.”

“Good, but you know I’m not the make-up type.”

Her sister made a you-poor-thing face that reminded Joanne of that pink-haired juror a month ago. “But men like bright, shiny girls.”

“Then maybe they should buff them with silver polish.”

A comment Shannon didn’t hear as she was continuing her shopping tale.

“…the most
darling
set of ceramic plates, perfect for a brunch, which I couldn’t resist buying…”

Soon the story devolved into a tale of woe where that evening Josh cut her plastic credit card in half
in front of the children
followed by his calling the credit card company and ordering them to terminate her account.

“He actually told those credit card strangers that I needed
interests other than shopping
. Like I’m not a good mother.”

As Shannon fussed with the gold-braid trim on her sleeve, Joanne said gently, “I think you’re comparing apples to oranges. You
are
a good mother, a terrific one, in fact, which is a world apart from Josh’s comment. He wants you to…get a hobby, I guess. Have something to do that’s more constructive than shopping.”

“
Hobby
,” Shannon repeated, as if saying a foreign word. “You mean learn to knit or something?”

“C’mon, Shannon, you know what I’m talking about. There’s things you might enjoy doing like...coordinating people’s wardrobes…or diet counseling.”

“I like volunteering at my daughters’ school, but that’s not really a hobby. Plus they’re growing up so fast…I need to figure out shomething…” She cleared her throat. “Something that I can do on my own.”

Her gaze wandered around the room, finally landing on the tufted leather armrest of the swivel desk chair. “Oh my…this is an exquisite piece of furniture. You found this in a second-hand store?”

“No, my landlords loaned me the chair and desk.”

“Cherry wood,” she murmured appreciatively, running her manicured fingertips over the desk surface. “Look at that carved dragoon border and the sinuous curves on the sides of that desk…handcrafted in the late eighteen hundreds, I would guess. People will see this desk and know you’re the kind of lawyer who deserves big retainers.”

Joanne snorted a laugh. “Wish it could also ask for those retainers.”

“I’ve never understood how you can stand in a courtroom and eloquently ask for things for your clients, but when it comes to asking for things
you
want…”

“I know.”

She straightened, her eyes sparkling with a thought. “You need someone to negotiate for you.”

“No, it’s a problem when clients know their attorney’s fees before the attorney even knows they’re a client.”

Shannon frowned in confusion. “What’s the part after
before the attorney
...no, wait, I get it. You need your negotiator with you so it
seems
like your idea.” She smiled. "Gosh, we haven’t had a girly-girl chat like this in years…reminds me of those nights in my bedroom when you'd help me with my homework. And I’d help you with styling recommendations.”

Which obviously I paid a great deal of attention to
. Joanne thought about her sister’s appraisal of the desk. "Ever think about studying interior design? You know a lot about furniture, lighting, what colors to paint walls….”

She hiccupped a laugh. "That means going to school...need I say more?”

“You can earn a certificate in interior design. I had a client who did that, took her a year. Then you could work for an interior designer or be a personal consul—“

Shannon bolted upright and jabbed a tangerine-tipped fingernail at some region over Joanne’s shoulder. “Home invasion,” she croaked.

“What?”

“Burglars!” Her sister ripped loose a scream worthy of a horror film. “Get a gun!”

Adrenalin skyrocketing, Joanne reached in her pocket for the phone...not there.
Screw the phone. Grab a weapon
. As her sister shrieked like an eagle giving birth in the wild, she snatched a mini-stapler in one hand and
Colossus: Hoover Dam and the Making of the American Century
in the other, ready to staple and whack the literary bejesus out of these office invaders…

Who were awfully quiet.

Her heart pounding behind her eyeballs, she turned slowly.

There stood a paunchy guy with frizzed-out hair in a T-shirt with the words
Hey Hey Mama
, his eyes pinker than a strawberry daiquiri. Next to him stood a twenty-something woman whose black bobbed hair, green jacket and red shirt made her look like a seven-layer-cookie.

“Lenny” Joanne rasped. “Dita.”

“Whoa,” Lenny said. “That was like…totally heavy.”

As her heart relaxed to a near-regular beat, she realized Gloria had unlocked the dead bolt on the adjoining door when she made her speedy exit, which left the door open between her place and Fossen-Chandler’s. Still…

“You could’ve knocked.”

“Next time I will,” Lenny said. “Like, guns kill, man.”

“I don’t have a gun.”

“Does she?” He pointed at Shannon, who was busily checking her reflection in the computer screen.

Not unless they’re on sale at Nordstrom’s.
“No. This is my sister, by the way. So why are you two here?”

“I got four thousand,” Lenny said, pulling a wad of bills from his pocket. “Sold my 1958 Gibson Les Paul guitar with cherry red sunburst finish on eBay.”

Shannon glanced up at Joanne. “They have money,” she silently mouthed.

“My parents are sending me another two thousand,” Lenny said, setting the wad of bills on the edge of the desk. “Which brings Dita’s retainer to six grand. Gloria said you’d probably accept eight, which I think I can do if I sell my 1968 Grateful Dead concert poster at the Carousel Ballroom in San Francisco, which is in
totally
mint condition.”

She massaged her temple with her thumb and index finger, feeling a Gloria-committed-me-again headache coming on.

“And I could sell my car,” Dita added in a raggedy whisper.

With a weary sigh, Joanne dropped her hand. “No, Dita.”

She recalled McGill saying Dita’s car was still parked at her old place, but she didn’t want to discuss the ATF agent’s visit as that would involve their asking questions for which she had no answers.

“We need to talk about where you’re living. The terms of your bond agreement include you remaining at the address provided to the court at your arraignment. A, uh, court clerk contacted me today, said mail sent to your old address was returned. I said you are no longer my client and therefore I have no idea of your whereabouts, but for my own information, have you moved?”

Dita nodded yes, then shifted her gaze to Shannon.

Joanne placed her hand on a linebacker shoulder of her sister’s toreador top. “Shannon, you are now my law office assistant. If anyone asks questions about who was in this room, or what was said, tell them you cannot respond due to attorney-client privilege.”

Shannon pulled herself away from her reflection and looked up, an eyelash stuck on her cheek.

“Just…repeat what I told you,” Joanne said, plucking the lash off Shannon’s cheek and setting it on the edge of her desk. She looked back at Lenny and Dita. “Which means anything said here is confidential.”

“Okay,” Lenny said. “I moved
So Fine
to my place.”

“That’s his nickname for me,” Dita explained.

“I was worried about her,” Lenny continued. “Reporters were sleeping on her doorstep and dogging her by car wherever she went...one followed her so closely he almost nudged her off the road.”

Joanne noticed the young woman’s hands were trembling, and the shadows under her eyes indicated she was having trouble sleeping.
Poor thing. Must be scared witless that she’ll be found guilty and spend decades in prison.
No compelling evidence that tied Dita to the crime, a gung ho DA rabid to win this high-profile case...this had
wrongful conviction
written all over it. And, if she handled this case well, it could be a great reputation builder for Joanne.

Four thousand would barely cover expenses like investigations, reports, maybe an expert witness, too...but if his parents really came through with that extra two, maybe she could work this case on the cheap. Do the bulk of paralegal tasks herself, work out a deal with her alma mater, the William Boyd School of Law at the University of Nevada, for a law student to earn course units via an internship with her.

“If your parents come through with that two thousand, perhaps it’s possible—”

“She won’t accept a penny under nine,” her sister interrupted, rising unsteadily to her feet.

“Shannon, please—”

“I wasn’t negotiating her fee as she’s
right here
.” Her sister emphasized the last two words by patting Joanne’s stomach. “She graduated top of her law school class, plus she deserves all the money she can get after her dickwad boyfriend—ouch!” She turned to Joanne. “You pinched me!”

“Sit down,” Joanne whispered. “Or I’ll tell Josh about your
strawberry
afternoon.”

Looking hurt and pissed at the same time, her sister slumped back down in her chair.

Joanne glanced around the room, thinking of all the things she needed to buy, like guest chairs, and she needed to pay her state attorney licensing fees and practice insurance, plus get her car fixed one of these months…

Even cutting corners, she had to be practical. “I want to help you, Dita, but it would be foolish for both of us to tackle a complicated case like this on four, even six, thousand.”

“I posted several dozen flyers in the park near Organica Streetwear last Friday,” Lenny said. “It will strengthen her case if someone comes forward who saw her jogging in the park that evening.”

The key word being
if
. It didn’t bode well for Dita’s case that no one had come forward yet to confirm her story. Burnette’s investigators would have already confiscated several of those flyers by now—she could see Burnette at trial, prancing like a peacock in front of the jury box, holding a flyer for all to see while citing statistics on the hundreds of people who frequent that park on a daily basis…yet not a
single person
responded to this flyer, one of several dozen posted throughout the park.

It hurt to look at Lenny’s face, crumpled with worry over Dita, who he obviously still loved. She looked stunned and tired, perhaps too caught up in her life crisis to notice. Or maybe she did, but could handle only life tragedy at a time.

“If your employment as a masseuse has been part-time or sporadic,” Joanne said to Dita, “you may be eligible to retain a public defender.”

The young woman’s large dark eyes searched Joanne’s face. “I’ve already talked to one…he said I should plead guilty and he would do his best to negotiate a fair prison sentence.”

“Eddie Kinsley?”

“How’d you know?”

“Just a guess.”

This poor girl couldn’t get a decent break. Unless Eddie died or quit his job, Dita was stuck with him. The PD’s office didn’t want clients getting miffed at a lawyer and hopping to another defender, so its policy was that all attorney-client assignments were final.

“Miss Galvin, I’m afraid I will end up in prison for a crime I didn’t commit,” Dita said. “You’re my only hope.”

Her heart broke a little more. Shaking her head no, she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

An overwhelming exhaustion came over Joanne, as if someone had opened a valve on her energy and drained every last drop. She leaned against her desk...sad and tired and wanting nothing more than to lie down and sleep.

“I need to end this meeting.” She looked at Shannon. “I’m too tired to drive you home...let’s call you a taxi. I’ll drive your car over tomorrow sometime.”

“But I need to take Angelina to swim class at six tomorrow morning.”

“Six,
really
? Isn’t that a little early for a nine-year-old?”

Shannon crossed her arms tightly, which bunched up her shoulder pads so high, they almost framed her face. “She wants to be on the Olympic swimming team someday! When you were nine, nobody shaid
you
were too young to be a lawyer.”

“To young to
want
to be a lawyer,” Joanne corrected.