Motion for Murder (30 page)

I heard a rustling and turned back to see Mack Ramsey holding a gun level with my chest. "Is he here now?"

I went limp with fear and despair. "Mr. Ramsey, please. No one suspects—"

"Of course they do." He didn't seem particularly anxious about the matter. "The officers who visited my house yesterday weren't selling tickets to the policemen's ball."

I blinked. "Officers?" The detectives must have gathered names of clients who'd had office appointments. Curt hadn't mentioned they were doing that.

Curt. Now I was praying he'd show up on time. Of course, on time might be too late for me.

Ramsey waved the gun, as if dismissing the whole train of thought. "It doesn't matter, you know. I'll be with Constance soon."

"The blown statute." Personal injury or wrongful death cases had a two-year statute of limitations, the window within which a lawsuit must be filed. Missing that window, when it was spoken of at all, was referred to in horrified whispers as blowing the statute. Dougie had not only blown Mack Ramsey's statute, he'd failed to even open a real file and pursue any investigation into Constance Ramsey's death. I could hardly blame Mr. Ramsey for feeling that his lawyer had let him down; he had. But his lawyer's secretary hadn't, although that didn't seem to matter to him.

I hadn't realized I'd said anything out loud, but Ramsey was nodding.

"All I wanted," he said, "was for you people to get justice for me. Those doctors killed my Connie, and you didn't even care enough to file a lawsuit."

"That's not true," I said. I had to believe that much. "Doug cared about his clients. It was a clerical mistake, really. The case slipped through the cracks. There are so many files
" I let my voice trail off when I realized I wasn't helping my own cause. Ramsey wasn't listening anyway. He was craning his neck to look around the corner, toward the stairs. He must have heard Wally moving around up there. My eyes flitted to the telephone. I wondered if I should punch the intercom button to yell for Wally. Of course, once he got wind of what was going on, he probably wouldn't come. He'd shimmy down the elm tree outside his window and be gone before Curt found my dead body.

I closed my eyes, wishing I'd gone to beauty school like Estelle What's-Her-Name. New York couldn't be more dangerous than Parker, Dennis at this moment. If I survived this, I'd enroll within twenty-four hours. I'd even learn to do nails. And I'd dress better. Pantyhose without holes. Underwear with fresh elastic. And I'd throw myself at Curt and drag him off to my bed once and for all. Enough with ogling his legs from afar. A girl could be assertive after she'd had a gun pointed at her.

"She's gone," Ramsey was saying, talking more to himself than to me. "She's gone, and I'm alone, and you didn't care. No one here cared."

"I care," I said. It sounded like a sappy greeting card, but it was the best I could manage. "The lawyers might not, but we secretaries do. And we can only do what we're told, after all."

He pursed his lips as if trying to decide whether to believe me.

"There's a procedure to follow." I went on. I didn't know if he was buying it or not, but talking made me feel like I might have some control over the situation. "The lawyers send out certain letters, ask for certain documents. If they don't tell us what to ask for, we can't do our jobs." With every ounce of strength I had, I was passing the buck to Howard and Wally and Ken.

"You could ask them," he said.

"Ask them?" I tried to smirk. "You can't ask lawyers anything. They don't answer questions."

He made a face that might have said he agreed with me.

"Let me ask you something," I said, sensing a warming trend. "Dougie mentioned that you were a farmer. Is that where you got the Spanish fly? From your farm?"

"Of course not." He shrugged. "I got it at the Black Orchid."

Of course.

He jiggled the gun at my computer. "The letter?"

That letter felt like the only thing keeping me bullet-free. There was no way I was typing so much as my name. "Wouldn't you rather speak to Wally?" I asked hopefully. "I'm sure he can explain to you what happened."

"I know what happened." He glanced at the wall clock. "You forgot about me. Now society will forget about you."

"No one forgot about your wife," I said. 'Tell me about her." I edged my chair closer to the desk where my letter opener lay waiting possibly to save my life. "Do you have any photos of her?"

"You know, you're a dreadful secretary," he said. "You can't stay on the subject, and you talk too much."

"It might have something to do with the gun," I said. I wondered if letter openers could be thrown like knives. I couldn't see why not. But there was never a knife thrower around when you needed one.

"This?" He looked down at his gun with mild surprise. "This needn't make you nervous. Not yet, anyway."

Great.

"You know," he added, "I think I would rather speak to Wallace first after all. You've made some fine points in your own defense."

It was a start. "Howard will be in in twelve hours," I said. "Maybe you'll want to talk to him, too. There's no rush, right?"

He ignored that. "Try him again," he told me. "If he won't answer the phone, I'll go up and get him if I have to." He looked at the stairs doubtfully, and I realized he probably had bad hips or bad knees or both. No man his age could be sturdy and strong on his feet. That presented a new opportunity I hadn't considered: an old-fashioned football tackle. It would probably fracture his hip, but that was no more unkind than him shooting an air vent into my chest. Of course, I was on the wrong side of the desk for that, and something less than athletic, but I was willing to give it a try.

"I'd love to see Mrs. Ramsey's picture," I said again, since that was the best chance I had to gain a more strategic position.

"I know what you're doing," he said.

I glanced at the clock. Curt still had ten minutes to go. For once in his miserable life, Wally wasn't up and down the stairs annoying me. I was on my own. This was it.

No more overtime for me.

"I'm not doing anything," I said, trying to be soothing. "I understand how upset you are. I'd be upset, too. I'm sure you were married for a long time
"

"Fifty-seven years," he said. "And you have no idea how upset I am."

I took a deep breath. "Actually, I do, Mr. Ramsey. My mother died from a hospital's negligence eight years ago. Only a jury didn't see it that way. They didn't think the hospital did anything wrong." I crossed myself mentally and promised to throw a week's salary into the collection basket if I pulled this off. Plus, I'd apologize to my parents for everything I'd ever done. Including the twenty-two hours of labor I'd put my mother through.

The gun wavered slightly. "They did?"

I nodded, keeping my expression grave. Which wasn't hard. "That's the trouble with juries, Mr. Ramsey. You never know what they're going to do. They might have decided your wife wasn't the victim of negligence, either. And you'd still be alone." I swallowed hard. "Like my father."

"But she was the victim of negligence." He sounded confused.

"You're on the inside looking out," I said. "Juries are on the outside looking in. The view is never the same."

"I suppose it isn't," he said, but he didn't lower the gun.

The front door opened again, and I heard heels clopping into the entry hall. A second later, Sherri burst into the office wearing a sundress that made sitting an adventure in exhibitionism. "Hey, kiddo, I saw your car, and I thought I'd see how the barbecue went." She froze when Ramsey turned the gun on her. "What's this?"

"This is Mack Ramsey," I told her.

She nodded at him. "Why is he holding a gun?"

"He wants to kill Wally," I said.

"I want to kill all of you," Ramsey said.

"Right." I tried to swallow. "He wants to kill all of us."

"Why?" Sherri demanded. "What'd you do?" She scowled at Ramsey. "What'd my sister ever do to you?"

"Your sister?" His eyes grew even larger as he looked her up and down. "You look nothing alike."

He probably meant with the heels and the makeup and the teased hair, but Sherri took it slightly differently. "She's always had a little problem with her wardrobe. Between you and me, she's a mess." She edged closer to him, keeping her expression non-threatening and leading with her chest. And Ramsey was taking notice. He might have been eighty, but he was a man, after all. "Look at you," Sherri said to him, gesturing to his suit. "You're a very smart dresser, Mack. May I call you Mack?"

"No," he said.

Surprise flickered across her face and was gone. "I wish you'd let me call you Mack. It's a very
manly name. Virile."

"Call me Mack," he said, standing absolutely motionless while she moved in. I considered grabbing some paper and taking notes.

"Mack." She said it like she was tasting something sweet. "I can see you're a man with exquisite taste, Mack. That suit is lovely." She reached for his hand and lifted it, twirling slowly beneath it like she was dancing. "Do you like my outfit, Mack?"

"What there is of it," he said, but his tone was mild, and she noticed. She waggled a finger at him, scolding. "You don't fool me. You mature gentlemen like a nice turn of ankle as much as the younger guys." She stuck out her leg and pulled up her hem until the color of her panties was the only mystery left. At least I hoped she was wearing panties. "What do you think, Mack? Would you like to take me dancing?"

His jaw slackened a little and so did mine. I knew precisely what she was up to, but I didn't know how far she'd take it. It was like watching a brilliant trial lawyer playing cat-and-mouse with a witness on the stand. Mack Ramsey was the only one who didn't know where this was going.

"I used to dance with my Connie," he said, so wistfully that something tightened in my chest. Despite everything, he was a lonely old man. A lonely old homicidal man.

Sherri seemed unmoved. "Dance with me now," she said, taking his hand again. I noticed she ignored the one holding the gun. She was manipulative, but she wasn't stupid.

"I don't know," he said, letting her lead him to the center of the room, where she laid her cheek against his and conformed herself to his thin body, still holding fast to his free hand. He put his gun hand around the small of her back so the gun was nestled in the hollow there. Over his shoulder, she gave me a look that I recognized instantly as:
Do not screw this up.
I gave a slight nod. I had no intention of screwing it up.

As she hummed softly in his ear, she slowly maneuvered him until his back was to me. As soon as I saw his bald spot, I launched myself onto my desk and leaped onto his back, wrapping both arms around his shoulders and both legs around his waist, pulling and pushing and twisting all at the same time. He made a sharp "Awwk!" sound and pushed Sherri away, but it was too late. I'd startled him enough that he'd dropped the gun. It hit the floor and fired into the opposite wall, sending a little puff of plaster wafting out. Ramsey stumbled forward, off balance, and fell onto his knees, and Sherri scrambled out of his way, looking relieved and horrified and proud all at the same time.