Talk of the Town (15 page)

Kelly broke off from Sam’s embrace and gathered her dried-out belongings up in one of his gym bags he loaned her. She’d finish her sentence, but what would she say?
I’m going to find out if I’m still wanted for murder?

She watched Sam in his lawyerly dark olive suit make the rounds of his apartment: water the plants, turn on the answering machine, and get his briefcase. She liked being part of his routine.

She really needed to get back home to Myrtle’s and think.

Back at the Hen House, Myrtle was just finishing up with the every-Monday comb-out on Alice.

“Hi, Mrs. Hutchinson, I hope you have a nice choir rehearsal tonight, and that tenor is going to ask you out for sure tonight, you look stunning.”

“Thanks, dear, and I hope you had a good roll in the sack with Sam. It’s so nice to see you young folks being frisky.”

Oh, my God. Kelly didn’t know what to say. Of course, here she was in Sam’s clothes, includ
ing his college sweatshirt, and damn, everyone in town knew. Myrtle laughed silently until tears came down her cheeks.

Kelly went to the nail station and started stripping her old polish off. Two days in Sam’s pool, in Sam’s shower, and in Sam’s bed had left her pretty much a wreck.

Myrtle finished with Alice in record time, sprayed her down, collected her check, and sent her out the door. Then she hurried over to Kelly.

“Spill it, girlfriend, I’m about to burst. Did you like the biscuits? And the whipped cream?” Myrtle sat down across from Kelly, grabbed up her hands, and started stripping red off her nails.

“Yes, everything was divine. Not very subtle, though, you guys are
so
bad.”

“The time for pussyfootin’ around is over, dearie. Let’s hear the story.”

Kelly told Myrtle the basic details, leaving out some of the deliciously private variations on their weekend. After all, she did have some secrets worth keeping.

“I told you he was the one.”

“You were right. I’ve decided to marry him.”

Myrtle’s eyes widened about up to her finely drawn eyebrows.

“Did he ask you?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ll be a ring-tailed pheasant. It worked even better than we thought.”

“What worked?”

“Oh, all the matchmaking me and Dottie Williamson have been up to, you know.”

“Oh, that. Yes, it did, so give yourself a big pat on the back and paint my nails pink. Pink is a good nonexistent-engagement color.”

Kelly couldn’t stop smiling. Her body was tired and ached in places she had forgotten about. She leaned back in the red leatherette chair and relaxed while Myrtle gabbed excitedly on about weddings and rings and photographers.

It all sounded great. A wonderful fantasy. She didn’t even know why she’d said it, but after being made love to by Sam for two days she just felt like it was possible. She knew she was falling for him hard. The thought of him made her crazy and happy and warm all at the same time.

Too bad none of it was true. Her smile faded. Sam would never marry her. She was going to be found out, and he’d hate her. Then there was that pile of money under her bed. She was going to take a nap, get cleaned up, and go over to his office. It was time to come clean with Sam. She couldn’t in any way justify not telling him that Raymond was dead.

Kelly showered, then lay down and slept a deep, middle-of-the-morning sleep.

She dreamed of a wedding dress, very floaty, with layers of silk organza and a beaded lace bodice. It was the kind of dress that made you look like a princess. There was a diamond crown in her hair, and her veils were floating on the summer breeze.

Sam stood at the altar waiting for her in a gray morning suit. He watched her come down the aisle by herself. When she came very close, he tucked one daisy into her bouquet. She looked down at it, then back to his face.

Sam became Raymond. Her dress turned into white leather, her veil was ripped, mud-stained high-heeled boots were on her feet. Her hair turned into black crow feathers.

She dropped her bouquet and backed away, then turned and ran down the white church runner, dropping black feathers all the way down the aisle. Her screams became a caw-caw-cawing.

Kelly’s eyes stung with tears. She pulled the covers closer around her for a minute, then flung them off and got up. She was going to get ready.

She slipped into a silk camisole and matching panties from the back of her drawer and contemplated her closet. Her beige capri pants and a silk blouse would do. Some of the clothes she had packed for her honeymoon with Raymond. A little on the summery side, but still okay in this good weather they’d been having. Simple but
sexy would be perfect. Her hair was trashed, but with some combing her new, softer waves sprang back to life.

Her hands shook as she buttoned the tiny buttons up her blouse front. She added a pair of beige sandals to let her peachy-pink-painted toenails show and threw her beige sweater over her shoulders. Her thoughts were racing as she dressed.

Before she went to Sam’s she needed somewhere quiet and private to make a call to Caroline again. Kelly looked at Myrtle’s statue of Mary that sat on a high dresser. She was made of shells with a beautifully painted face. Another New Orleans treasure.

“Give me strength,” she prayed out loud.

“How was the benefit? Grand as always?” Faith slid a cup of coffee onto Sam’s desk and stood there waiting.

“It was the best one I’ve ever been to. Of course, I know that the entire town knows every detail of my life for the last two days, so I hardly need to fill you in, do I?”

“Hardly.
I
packed the basket.”

“Thank you. I live in a fishbowl, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Bring my linens back in when you get a chance, will you?” Faith turned and exited, humming her way out the door.

Sam tried to focus on his work. He checked his
schedule calendar. He straightened his desk up. He gave up and paced, staring out the window at Paradise. Faith knocked on the door and brought him the
Seattle Times
. She’d turned it to the society section. There on the pages of a large metropolitan newspaper was a picture of him in his tux and Kelly in her red dress.

“Son of prominent art philanthropist Samuel Grayson II had a ball at Seattle Art Museum benefit this Saturday with his Lady in Red.”

Shit! If Raymond Bianchi was smart and hired a private agency, he’d track Kelly down in no time after that picture. He had to do something. He couldn’t let anything happen to her.

Faith knocked on the door and stuck her head in. “Kelly’s here.”

Sam strode out the office door quickly. Faith jumped out of the way. Kelly looked surprised—and smooth as silk in her beige outfit. He took her arm and pulled her into the office.

“Kelly, your picture, our picture, is in the paper. The Seattle paper.”

Kelly grabbed up the paper and stared. “That’s a good picture. Wow.”

“I don’t know what kind of resources Raymond has, but he could possibly track you down from that photo. I think you should stay with me for a while.”

“Sam, there’s something you need to know.”

Faith’s voice came through the intercom. “Sam, Peter Brody on line one. You asked me to tell you if his call came in.

“Thanks, I’ll take it.” Sam sat behind his desk and picked up the phone. “This will be helpful. I’m glad you’re here.” Sam pushed his phone line button. “Pete, what’ve you got for me?”

Kelly was not glad. She felt sick. She curled up into one of the office chairs and watched Sam nodding to his friend. This must be his lawyer buddy from L.A. Would Brody know about her? She wanted to tell Sam herself. She was ready to tell him.

Sam had a look of concern on his face as he listened to his friend on the phone. That was normal. She knew the instant it happened—the instant normal changed to horrible. His eyes fastened on her, and he stopped answering his friend. His responses became short and curt. He said words like “when?” and “no” with a precision she’d never seen him use. All the time he never took his eyes off her.

Until the call was finished. He set the phone down deliberately. He lowered his gaze to his desk and stared at the leather blotter for a long, silent minute.

“Let me explain.”

“Don’t. Don’t talk.” He looked back up at her. “First thing is, I want you to give me a dollar.”

“Why?” But she dug in her leather bag even while she asked it, and handed him a dollar.

“Good. I’ll accept that as a retainer. Now I’m your lawyer. Nothing you say will go past these walls. It’s called attorney-client privilege. But it’s very important that you listen to me before you speak, okay?”

He was pale. She saw the strain in his face. A horrible chill ran through her. She wrapped her beige cashmere sweater around her and shivered. “Yes,” she answered.

“Here is how this works. I can never knowingly let my client knowingly lie on the stand. If you are guilty, you must plead guilty, and it would be my job to
get
you to plead guilty. If you plan on claiming you didn’t commit a crime, then I can never hear from you that you are anything but innocent. So don’t tell me if you are guilty, tell me how you want to
plead
. Do you understand?” His fingers were laced together and his knuckles were white.

“I think so.” Kelly answered him slowly. “If I were going to plead, I’d plead not guilty.”

“Okay, that’s what you plead. From now on, as we talk, just tell me the story—just the events that occurred. Don’t ever tell me if you commit
ted this murder, all right?” Sam looked at her intently, waiting for an answer.

“Sam, I didn’t do it. I came here to tell you.”

Sam pushed back in his chair and got up. He stood in the corner by his bookshelf looking at the wall for a minute, as if he couldn’t bear to see her. Kelly felt tears coming. She breathed deeply and tried to steady herself.

“What, did you leave out a few details the last time we talked?”

“I didn’t know he was dead when I came here asking for help on a divorce, remember? Then last Monday, after we’d talked, I called a friend of mine in L.A. to see about the divorce. She’s a paralegal and I thought maybe it was simple enough she could do it herself.

“She told me Raymond was dead, and that I was wanted for his murder. I knew
I
didn’t kill him, so I waited to see if they’d find the real killers. I called her back today, but no progress has been made. Sam, please look at me.”

She realized he now knew she’d kept it from him for a week.

“Why didn’t you tell me? What possible reason would you have?”

“Everything was so good. Somehow I just didn’t want that to end.”

“So you found out Raymond was dead last Monday. Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”

“I needed some time to think. If I turned myself in, then…”

“What?”

“Then the men who probably killed him would come after me. After I left Raymond I found a briefcase full of money in his car. I was halfway to Seattle before I found it. I figured I’d make a new start with it—or something. I wasn’t sure what to do with it.” She twisted her hands together and watched for his reaction.

Sam leaned his head against the bookshelf on one hand. Kelly got up and came over to him. She put her hand on his shoulder. It was rock-hard. “Sam, please listen to me. I was scared. I was confused. I didn’t want to dump all this on you. I felt myself falling in love, and I wanted it to be wonderful.”

He turned and put his arms around her. She leaned her cheek against his unforgiving chest. She felt his anger burn through his gesture of kindness.

“Kelly.” His voice resonated through his chest to her ear. Rumbled into her. “You need to turn yourself in to the police. I can afford the best lawyers on the West Coast. I can help with the case. I’m no criminal attorney, but I can do second chair.”

Kelly pushed herself away from him and sat down. She swiveled toward him. “I’m not going
to turn myself in, Sam. I’m not going to stand trial for Raymond’s murder. I knocked him out; I didn’t kill him. I left him alive.

“I ran into two men in the hallway. I’m betting they went looking for their money, and Raymond didn’t have it. How did he die? Did he die of head wounds from the fall? Then we have a problem. I don’t even know how he was killed. Do you?”

“Tell me the entire story again. Don’t leave out anything. If you saw the men in the hall, you are a material witness. You can’t clear yourself unless you bring in the evidence the police need to find the killers.”

“I’m not so worried about clearing myself. I know I didn’t do it. But if I go back to L.A., even in jail, those guys will kill me, too. I can stay in Paradise. Even with the picture in the paper, it will be hard for them to find me.”

“You’re thinking wrong. They
can
find
me
. My name is there in the paper next to your picture. I’m in the phone book, Kelly. Use the system to clear yourself. Turn in the money and yourself.”

“Can you promise me I won’t be convicted?”

Sam felt a searing pain in his gut. He hung on to the bookcase and let the cold sweat pass over him. He couldn’t promise her that. He’d seen people who should have walked free get convicted and people who should have been locked
up walk away. He’d watched Chelsea get a jail sentence.

He fought all his cases with the ideals that his father gave him. Trusting that justice often was served, hoping his case wouldn’t fall through any legal loopholes. He could fight a good fight, but there was never a guarantee.

He didn’t answer her. He only knew she had to turn herself in. He couldn’t accept any other alternative.

“Sam?”

Sam walked over to the door and opened it. He called Faith over and told her that the rest of the day would be spent in his office with Miss Atwood. Could she please hold his calls? All of them. Faith must have sensed trouble. She said she’d take care of it and could she bring in a pot of tea?

Everyone needs something to do when the pain starts. He agreed to the tea. He shut the door and realized he’d used Kelly’s real name to Faith.

Kelly was standing at his window now. Looking out at Paradise.

“Are you going to turn me in, Sam?”

“As your attorney I can only advise you to turn yourself in, which I am doing. It’s my job to protect you from past crimes. I would be breaching our attorney-client privilege if I turned you
in, unless you told me you were about to murder someone. Hence the retainer. I’m now sworn.”

“Sam, surely you must see why I can’t do that. Do you want to see me dead?”

“I want to see you cleared of murdering your husband.”

Myrtle stuck a long butcher knife into the fattest pumpkin. “Somethin’s up. I can feel it in my bones.” She cut jagged zigzags around the top.

“Oh, those old bones of yours are just worried. I think things are going very nicely.” Dottie Williamson scooped out the guts of the taller pumpkin with a long metal spoon and splatted them into a bowl.

“Faith said they were locked up in his office all day and she heard yelling. Mostly her.” Cora finished a particularly good eye on the smoothest side of a nice round pumpkin. She cleaned off her carving tool and pointed so the others could see.

“That’s one good eye, there, Cora. Looks like Paul Newman.” Dottie wiped pumpkin guts off her cheek with one of Myrtle’s pink dish towels. “Myrtle, it’s only been two weeks since Kelly came to town. Don’t you think we’re rushing things a bit?”

Myrtle wrenched the top off her pumpkin with one swift movement, then hacked at the connecting strings until it pulled free. “We are
talking about two people whose time has come. They’re both ready for it; they both want the same things. They are both stubborn as mules. Keep runnin’ around with a carrot tied to their tails and can’t even see the big picture.” Myrtle handed over her pumpkin to Dottie for gutting and picked up a lopsided but large specimen.

“So how do you s’pose we get them to see that big picture, Myrtle?” Cora tilted back Paul Newman and gave a fine tune to her artwork.

“Plan B, ladies. Plan B. Dottie, Cora, can I get you two a refill on the peach daiquiris?”

“I believe that’s a yes all around, hon.” Cora held up Paul for inspection.

“My, that’s fine. You are a gifted artist, Cora.” Dottie passed the next cleaned-out pumpkin to her. “Now make this one Joanne Woodward.”

Faith braved up and knocked on Sam’s office door. Kelly had stalked out the door hours ago. The man couldn’t shut himself up in there all night. “Sam, I’ve got dinner for you. Cora sent it over.” She talked to the wood.

“It’s Cora’s night off.”

“She made it special for you. Now open up, I can’t twist the knob with my hands full.”

Sam opened the door. He looked bad. His tie was gone, his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes red. She walked past him and
put the covered plate on his desk along with silverware rolled in napkins and a bottle of beer.

“What’s that for?”

“For drinking. It’s Miller time.”

Sam laughed a short laugh. Faith saw law books scattered all over the office with sticky notes hanging out the edges.

“Now sit down and eat. I’m gonna stay here till you eat.” She plopped herself down in his client chair and popped open the diet soda she’d brought for herself.

“What’s up, boss?” She took a sip and waited until he sat down and opened the cover of his dinner.

“Meat loaf, gravy, mashed potatoes. Green beans.”

“I’ve known you since you were six. I’ve worked for your dad for fifteen years and for you since you got back in town. I’ve read over all of Miss
Atwood’s
documents. You need someone to talk to, Sam. I’m it.”

“Pretty short story. Miss Atwood has problems.”

“Damn, I’d say. You know she didn’t kill the guy. Why else would she have come to you for a divorce?”

“You know I can’t talk about her case.”

“So, let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about your love life.” Faith watched the bite of
meat loaf pause in midair before Sam went ahead and ate it.

Kelly walked in the door like a bat-out-of-hell directly into
pumpkin
hell, formerly Myrtle’s kitchen. Three women were cackling over shredded gourd innards and they all seem to be…drunk.

“Ladies, are we having a good time?” Kelly laid her purse on the window seat cushion and sat down to watch. She was twisted up inside. She was bone weary. She could cry, but if she started, she’d never stop.

“Grab that blender and pour yourself a glass of Myrtle’s famous fresh peach daiquiris, dear, they are divine, and you look like you could use one.” Dottie was blotty.

“None of you gals are driving, are you?”

“Nope. This here is our annual pumpkin night. Red Miller’s Hardware Store has a competition for the best carving. Cora here’s won three years running.” Myrtle was still understandable, but a little slurry around the edges.

“Oh, my God, it’s Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.” Kelly looked at the finished row of intricately carved pumpkins.

All the women screamed and slapped hands in the air. Kelly sat and watched the circus.

“I got his picture off the spaghetti sauce jar.
For Joanne I just winged it.” Cora was obviously the best at holding her peach daiquiris.

“You’re an extremely talented carver, Cora. Where’d you learn that?”

“Honey, I went to chef school in California. I took ice carving. You should see what I can do with an electric knife and a block of ice.” Cora beamed.