The Jezebel Remedy (25 page)

“From what I've seen, yes. In some form or fashion, yes, I believe they'll attempt to punish us if we cause them any problems. Maybe attack us legally, maybe otherwise. In fact, the more I've thought about it and the more we've learned, it wouldn't surprise me if Benecorp had a hand in Jane Rousch's disappearance. Remember the mysterious rental-car lady? Maybe she and her companion ended up dead and their car carefully abandoned in a parking deck because they were a direct connection to Lettie. They'd be a hellacious loose thread for Seth Garrison.”

“True.”

“Of course,” Joe added, “I realize you're convinced that Lettie's alive. I'm not forgetting that possibility. Still nothing from the chat room?”

“Nothing. And I've sent tons of messages. I haven't told you, and it's a long shot, but I've checked by her trailer too. Several times, without any luck. But I know what I saw.”

“I'm not trying to be a prick about it,” Joe said. “I'm not saying you're wrong. Everything's on the table. We have to keep an open mind. If we pursue every alternative, then nothing can surprise us. I'm positive there was someone in your car who sounded like Lettie and claimed to be Lettie. No doubt. I believe you.”

“So what do you think we ought to do?” Lisa asked. She was sitting across the desk from him. She was wearing her tanzanite ring and began rotating it around her middle finger. The blue stone scraped on each side as it turned. “I've thought and thought, and I'm not sure of our options. We could finesse, well,
counterfeit
trust or foundation documents, but I'm certain there's no chance you'd go along with that plan. We can hire a private detective to hunt for Lettie, assuming she's alive, and I really believe she is, but she could be anywhere. We don't have the first clue or lead. You could look in Topeka or next door in Chatham. It's frustrating as hell.”

“I won't be a crook just because they are,” Joe replied. He swiveled and took a walnut from a bowl he kept on the credenza. He cracked the nut in his palm, picked out the husk and dropped it into the trash can, then ate the meat straight from his hand. “As for a detective, you're right, where the hell would he search?”

“We don't have any leverage.” She sighed. “Sooner or later, our ruse is going to end and they'll discover they already own the formula and we were posturing about Lettie's trust having a claim.”

“Yep,” Joe said. He rubbed his palms together over the trash can.

“I've considered trying to push this farther up the ladder.” She quit spinning her ring. “What do we lose if we refuse to speak to Pichler, drop the iron curtain and tell him we want to talk to Garrison personally? Pichler's an apparatchik. He might not even understand the big picture, and he damn sure isn't in a position to make any kind of agreement or compromise with us.”

“I'm with you,” Joe said. “I've had the same thought. Certainly Garrison
won't admit squat, but it'll buy us a few weeks, rattle their cage and maybe give us a small read on what he's up to. Who knows—maybe Lettie surfaces for good in the meantime.”

“If he actually agrees to talk to us, that in itself confirms a lot.”

“Along with the demand to hear from Seth Garrison, we also need to prod them a bit,” Joe suggested. “Add some black pepper and habanero to their diet.”

“How?”

“First, we let them know we're willing to file suit. A civil action to recover the Wound Velvet.” He leaned forward, pressed his flat hands together under his chin, finger matching finger. A fleck of walnut husk was stuck on his wrist. “I'm realistic enough to know it's an uphill fight, but it'll make the point we're serious and here to stay.”

“I've done the same math, Joe. What do we plead? Fraud?”

“Exactly.” Joe broke his hands apart but stayed close to the desk's edge.

“Mutual mistake of fact?” Lisa added.

“Correct,” he said.

Lisa was briefly quiet. “We're the two lawyers,” she mused, “and Neal's the village idiot. I'd say it'll be heavy lifting for us.”

“No doubt.” Joe frowned, shifted in his chair. “But thanks to you, I friggin' asked him if he knew of any other assets, any estate holdings he wasn't revealing. He lied. He told us he didn't know any more than we did, yet there's no doubt he'd already been contacted by Benecorp and was their boy then. He'd probably struck a deal long before he claimed to us he was a babe in the woods.” Joe took a breath, exhaled deliberately. He rubbed his neck. “For the record, I'm sorry I screwed this up, but who the heck knew? I was trying to be fair. I had no earthly idea Petty Lettie VanSandt had suddenly become Marie Curie. If I'd kept what she gave me, we'd be in the catbird seat right now.”

“I don't blame you, Joe,” Lisa said. “I agreed with your decision a hundred percent. You handed over a bunch of stray animals, a dilapidated trailer and a few thousand dollars. Attempted to do right by Lettie and her son. My asking was rote and routine, basic lawyering, nothing special. We were both in the dark.” She twisted the TV ring a full rotation. “And hey, listen, I saw Lettie and talked to her and none
of this estate bullshit is going to matter. She still owns the VV 108, simple as that. Neal transferred a big fat zero to Benecorp.”

“Well, we've never mentioned it, and you've been generous not to remind me I might've pissed away a potential fortune, but…I thought I should apologize. I wish I could go back. I wouldn't make the same mistake again.”

“Totally not your fault. No need to explain. We've all done things we'd like to take back.”

“So, yeah, we allege fraud,” he said. “If Neal claims he didn't know about the Wound Velvet when we did the deal, then it's mutual mistake of a material fact, and we ask to void my renouncement.”

“Garrison will paint us as greedy, gold-digging lawyers trying to scrounge a buck from Lettie's simpleton son, and even if we win, what'll we get? We can't pinpoint what we're after. They'll hand over the formula for granny's lye soap or Kaboom shower cleaner, pure junk or complete garbage that doesn't work, and a year later they'll announce they've discovered the Fountain of Youth.”

“I understand it's not an easy case. But I think we should pressure them, put the option of a suit on the table, at least let them know we aren't simply planning to roll over in light of what we've discovered. We tell Pichler we want to speak to Garrison, and that we're planning to file suit for fraud. If they stonewall, we drop the fraud claim on them.”

“All right,” Lisa said, didn't hesitate. “I'm a hundred percent committed.”

“So I'll make a motion that we adopt the course of action we've discussed and dedicate all necessary firm resources. Do I have a second?”

“Damn it, Joe, you're such a twerp sometimes.”

“A second?” he repeated.

“Yes, Joe, I second your motion.”

“All in favor,” he intoned, “say ‘aye.' ”

“What if I vote no?” she asked. “Just to aggravate you?”

“Then the motion would fail,” he said, “and we'd forget about it.”

“Aye,” she said.

“Aye,” he said, raising his hand to emphasize the vote. “I'll have Betty type the minutes.”

“You do that, Warren Buffett.”

“Another piece of new business,” Joe added. “I think we need outside counsel. Our own lawyers. You and I might have to testify. In fact, if this thing goes the distance, we absolutely will have to testify.”

“Technically, Joe, only you'll need a lawyer. I don't have any claim to Lettie's estate. At best—or maybe I should say at worst—I'm only a witness. But yeah, I agree. If this escalates, we'll probably need a battalion of lawyers. Who'd you have in mind?”

“First, I say we see if Robert Williams will help us,” Joe suggested.

“Huh. I love Robert and he's a great lawyer, but it's only him. His brother's not there any longer. He's solo. Don't we need lots of associates and clerks and warm bodies in the trenches?”

“I said
first
. Nobody can look around corners better than Robert. I've never seen him ambushed or surprised or blindsided. He's a swami like that. Savvy and smart. It'd be like having Nostradamus on our side.”

“Fair enough. Good choice. Robert's a class act too. He'll be easy to work with. Even better, he's about the only man I know who can wear a double-breasted suit and not come off as Sky Masterson.” She grinned at Joe.

“Next, what if we retain your party buddy Brett Brooks? I'm not a fan, personally, but he's got a powerhouse firm behind him and every judge in Virginia takes him seriously.”

“No,” Lisa blurted, the grin instantly gone. “Uh, no.”

“Why?” Joe asked. “That was pretty knee-jerk.”

“Because…well, Phil Anderson's a better lawyer and has a larger group of associates. Former state bar president, smooth operator in court, carries a big stick, never flinches.” Lisa raked her hair forward, covered more of her neck. She shifted in the chair and pulled her skirt's hem closer to her knees.

“I thought about Phil,” Joe said. “He's top-notch and fearless.”

“And you won't make pissy cracks about him or demand to be present at every meeting or refer to him as my ‘party buddy.' ” She took another pass at her hair.

Joe laughed. “Me? Make ‘pissy cracks'? You must be thinking of a different Joe Stone, the guy with the goatee, my evil, parallel-universe twin.”

“Nope.”

He tapped his foot, diddled with a thick brown rubber band, stared out the window. The phone rang and he ignored it. “Phil Anderson, huh?” he said when the phone finished and went to voice mail.

“It doesn't have to be Phil. But seriously, we don't need any degree of complication, no matter how great a lawyer Brett Brooks is.”

“Okay. I'm sold. Robert and Phil Anderson it is.” Joe stood up, leaned against his credenza and put his hands in his pockets. “Here's another idea. Tell me what you think. We've basically gone as far as we can in terms of an investigation. How about we bring the cops into the loop? Specifically, Toliver Jackson. I think it's time.”

“Did he ever track down the e-mail from the library? To make certain it's legit and not Dr. Downs's vindictive handiwork?”

“He said he would. He also said it'd be a pain in the ass, so I haven't badgered him. But I'll follow up. I mean, given what's happened so far, I don't have much doubt Lettie sent it.”

“If he could find just one tiny dirty link to Benecorp. Maybe he could run down the origin of the Jane Rousch money order, where it was bought. Or interview the dog guy, Don Beverly—somehow that's bound to be a part of this. Or, I don't know, think of something we haven't.”

“I'm still a big fan of checking the hospital records,” Joe said. “It can't be coincidence the rental car was so close by. But like you said, that won't be simple, either.”

“Yeah, I'd definitely keep the records idea on the back burner for now. But we have a solid start for Toliver, enough that it should raise a red flag and get him interested.”

“Do we tell him we think Lettie might be alive?” Joe asked. “About your leprechaun visitor?”

“Why not? I think we need to tell him everything. By all means, let's get her on the cops' radar so they'll be looking for her. Hell, as volatile as she is, maybe she'll get arrested somewhere. We'll see if he can locate any prints on her cardboard too. It's still in your desk in the Ziploc bag, right?”

“Yes. I'll give it to him.” Joe smiled. “The absolute best would be Toliver interviewing Seth Garrison. I'd pay money to see that extravaganza.”

“I'd bet on Toliver,” Lisa said. “He'd take out his little notebook and drop a few Toliverisms on the king of Benecorp. ‘Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit' is still my favorite.”

“I'd vote for ‘the dingleberry vortex.' As in ‘you keep lyin' to me, you gonna find yourself deep in the dingleberry vortex.' ” Joe mimicked the officer's speech. “It's simultaneously kind of childish and
Fahrenheit 451
.”

“I'm guessing none of the criminals have any idea what he means. I'm not even sure I do. But it's been a signature line for years.”

“So we're agreed on everything?” Joe asked. “We have a plan?”

“We do. Yes.”

They voted again, two ayes.

“And if there is no further business, then I move we stand adjourned,” Joe said, not a jot of fun or irony in the statement.

On the way back to her office, Lisa stopped in the hallway, stalled underneath the high ceiling and four-piece crown molding, and a banished recollection slipped loose, the memory of the warm Bahamian ocean, how she'd flitted to the beach and kicked off her shoes and started wading until the waves bobbed against her legs, her slacks soaked. She recalled the sand eroding with each pull of the tide, wallowing out holes around her feet and ankles, sinking her deeper and deeper into the bottom. Her mind allowed the image to mutate, and she imagined the ocean changing from blue to pale gray, and as far as she could see, the surface turned level and placid and the water transformed into hard concrete, and she was captured there, unable to move, locked in place from the thighs down, encased. She shook her head, cleared her thoughts and started walking again, and she muttered Brett's name and made a finger pistol, pointed an index finger at her temple, fired with her thumb. “Pow,” she said.

The Saturday following the Stone and Stone stockholders' meeting, Lisa was at the kitchen counter working on a favorite strawberry cake. Earlier, Joe had fixed them breakfast. He'd fried ham in the black skillet and cut the first honeydew melon of the summer—mushmelons, he called them—scraped away the center seeds and pared the rind from the fruit and then sliced the wet, green strips into fat chunks. She'd saved a bite of the salty ham and a piece of the honeydew and nibbled on them between cracking eggs and measuring flour and reading the recipe off a stained index card, written in her great-aunt's cursive, ruler-trained hand. She could see her lilies and snapdragons at the corner of the patio, giddy spreads of pink, orange, yellow and white atop yeomen green stems. Even though they'd agreed the Primland trip would be their anniversary present to each other, Joe had mail-ordered a Tiffany necklace and given it to her last night, a sterling silver key on a delicate chain—the key to his heart, he'd said, kind of silly and kind of sincere—and when she leaned over the recipe card, the key would swing forward and hang in the air. She'd surprised him with a custom-stitched saddle blanket, a bold “S” embroidered on each side, and she could tell he was happy to have it.

Almost every Saturday, Joe loaded Brownie into the farm truck and hauled trash and recyclables to the dump, the dog ecstatic in the truck bed, riding with stuffed garbage bags and large tubs of magazines and empty plastic containers. Joe carried the last bag to the truck and filled his travel mug with coffee and kissed her cheek. She was looking forward to some time alone in the house, baking and piddling, a foot-loose
morning, but a few minutes later he returned to the kitchen and told her he couldn't find Brownie. The dog had been there for breakfast. He'd eaten, ambled outside and climbed into the sturdy house—shingled, insulated, and now with an orthopedic pad—Joe had built for him when he was a pup.

“He's not in his box, and I've looked all over the yard and the barn.”

“Huh,” she said. She was dressed in shorts and flip-flops, her hair gathered away from her face. She'd started beating batter for the cake, and she tipped the KitchenAid mixer back from its silver metal bowl. “Did you check the basement?” Pink batter coated the blades, and dollops dripped into the bowl. “Maybe he used the pet door.”

“Yeah, the basement, the barn, under the vehicles. Everywhere. He's gone. Pancho and Lefty are in the hayloft. I even cranked the engine so he could hear me. Blew the horn. Yelled.”

“Yeah, I heard the horn. Was he okay at breakfast?”

“He was stiff and slow, but no more than usual. I gave him his pills in a ball of cheese. He wanted to go out, and he went straight to his box. I saw him while I was cutting the mushmelon, right before you came down. He was just lying there in his house.”

Lisa opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She called the dog's name several times. She walked to his box, stooped and stuck her head inside. “Did you hear anything, Joe?” she asked as she stood.

“Nothing. He hasn't been for a ramble in years. Usually, he eats and crashes in his house.”

“I don't mean to seem paranoid, but I can't help wondering if somebody took him.”

“Who would take him?” Joe asked. “And why?”

“Do I need to paint you a picture? How about the same people who are antagonizing Dr. Downs? A dog would be very minor given their history.”

“Well, honestly, it did go through my mind, but it doesn't make any sense. What do they gain?”

“So, okay, two days ago we give Pichler the ultimatum and insist we talk to his boss, and now our dog vanishes. It's a coincidence?” She put her hands on her hips. “It's not as if we're swapping briefcases with Walter and the Dude, Joe. Benecorp probably sent people here to kill Lettie.”

“The timing seems screwy, and it feels too soon and too small and too indirect for them. But, for sure, I thought of it.”

She went with him, and they searched and hollered and drove the truck slowly to the highway, shouting “Brownie!” and “Here, boy!” from the windows, and they trudged to the creek at the border of their property and followed it for a mile in each direction, zigzagging for an hour through briars, mountain laurels, ditches and pine thickets. They didn't find the dog. They visited their neighbors, who were generous and sympathetic but hadn't seen Brownie. Their neighbor Taylor even offered to let them use his Gator if they needed it, so they could drive to the bottoms where he cut hay, cover more territory. They phoned the radio station, the pound, the newspaper, the police.

Before the noon closing time, they hurried to the dump. The recycling shed was a three-sided structure with an unpainted tin roof and rusted metal supports. As Joe eased the truck parallel to the shed, Lisa noticed a man and a woman were leaning over one of the huge recycling containers, methodically inspecting the newspapers, magazines, catalogs, inserts and store flyers. The woman was wearing tinted glasses, and the man was dressed in a red Lacoste golf shirt. They both greeted Joe as he walked past them, said a few words. A Volvo station wagon was parked by the shed, evidently belonged to the scavengers.

“What's up with the couple digging through the bins?” she asked Joe when he'd finished emptying the tubs and returned to the truck.

“Coupons. People come here and fish them out.” He put the truck in gear.

“Seriously?”

“Yep. Sign of the times, I suppose. Though I understand there're experts on the subject who write blogs and articles, and they promote the idea. Makes it a little less embarrassing.”

Lisa studied the man and woman. “Do you know them?”

“He's Colin Hanover. Used to be a supervisor at Tultex, before it closed. Nice guy from all reports. His wife's named Janie or Jamie or something close to that. They're here a lot.”

“Damn,” Lisa said. “How sad.”

Joe released the clutch and steered them toward the green boxes, and before they stopped moving Lisa's BlackBerry sounded, mimicked an old-fashioned telephone ring. “Maybe that's news on Brownie,” she
said. She answered and said “Hello” and “Yes” and listened and tilted her head and shot Joe a concerned look and concentrated her lips into a thin, tense line. She asked the caller to wait a minute while she switched to speaker so her husband could hear. She took the phone from her ear and hit buttons from memory, three fast taps. “So you're with Benecorp?” she said.

“Actually, I report to Mr. Seth Garrison, who owns the corporation.” The voice was on speaker.

“And your name?” Lisa asked. “What's your name? I didn't quite catch it.”

“Elizabeth Briggs,” the woman answered. “Am I successfully on speaker now?”

“Yes,” Lisa said.

“Then good morning to you as well, Mr. Stone.”

“Hi,” Joe said.

“Mr. Garrison asked me to contact you regarding your request to discuss the VanSandt property. I wanted to schedule a time and circumstances that would suit you both.”

“Why don't you just hand him the phone?” Lisa asked.

“Oh, no,” Briggs replied. She laughed. She was condescending, haughty, the laugh a string of monotone
hah
s that translated to “I think you are a pitiful, dumb creature.” “That's impossible for many reasons.” She repeated the laugh.

“Could you do that again?” Lisa asked her.

“Pardon? Do what?”

“The laugh. It's the oldest wicked stepsister, right? Or Madonna, the 2005 version with the fake British accent?”

“I'm not positive I'm following you, Mrs. Stone. I didn't mean to insult you. But it
is
amusing you'd think someone as busy and influential as Mr. Garrison is standing here beside me, waiting for me to bring
you
to the phone.”

“Okay, fine, when will he call?” Joe asked from across the truck.

“Mr. Garrison rarely does business over the phone. He would prefer to see you and Mrs. Stone in person.”

“When and where?” Lisa was holding the BlackBerry between them, near the truck's roof so as not to break the connection.

“We have two options. We could schedule you for next week, the
week of June seventeenth, for a meeting in Virginia Beach. We also have a week in the middle of July available in Florida. Key West.”

“Why there?” Lisa asked.

“Mrs. Stone,” Briggs sniffed, “Mr. Garrison is a Canadian resident and a citizen of the world. He's the eleventh richest man on earth. His itinerary for the next months is set. It does not bring him near Henry County, Virginia. However, Mr. Garrison does regret the inconvenience and would be pleased to pay for your travel and accommodations.”

“So he really has agreed to meet with us?” Lisa asked.

“Hence my call,” Briggs said.

“Why are you calling us today, on a Saturday, on my personal phone?”

“It was the next item on my list,” Briggs told her. “I used your cell because I didn't expect to find you at your office. Your delightful assistant, Betty, gave the number to our Mr. Pichler. Here we all are.”

“For sure, we'll be meeting with Garrison himself?” Joe asked. “Not some flunky, not his vice president of alchemy and jabberwocky.” He nudged the truck forward. They were three vehicles away from the Dumpsters.

“You'll be meeting with Mr. Garrison personally,” Briggs promised.

“There's nothing closer than the beach?” Lisa asked.

“No. As I mentioned, we're more than willing to underwrite your travel.”

“We'll scrape together our pennies,” Joe said. “Thanks just the same.”

“I understand,” Briggs said.

“Joe and I will check our calendars and see what we can do. Where would we meet if we choose Virginia Beach?”

“Mr. Garrison's helicopter would collect you at the airport and land you on his ship, where he's based.”

“If we opt for Key West, we'll have to wait over a month?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sorry.”

“And there's really no chance we could simply talk over the phone?” Joe asked. “Why not?”

“Seth Garrison has his own rules, Mr. Stone. I don't create them, nor am I able to modify them.”

“Let me write down your number,” Lisa said, “and we'll confirm
something Monday. We're distracted right now—our dog is missing. You can imagine how upset we are.”

“Certainly,” Briggs said sweetly. “I'm sorry to hear it. I own two corgis myself. Best of luck to you.”

“What do you think?” Lisa asked once she clicked off. She'd jotted the number in blue ink on her palm.

“I don't know—be careful what you ask for, huh? It's significant that he'll see us, but this feels like a wild-goose chase. A dead-end, exhausting detour. Like he's fucking with us. We drive the miserable five hours to the coast, he jollies us up and humbly pours us cups of expensive tea, charms us with stories about whales and seals, tells us a few lies about Lettie and off we go, no wiser than we were. What exactly do we gain? We'll also have to either be dishonest or admit we don't actually own the Wound Velvet, that he already has everything thanks to his contract with dipshit Neal.”

“Yeah,” Lisa said. “It's a long trip. If we could get him on the phone, it would be helpful. But this…”

“I guess we can think about it. Maybe we ought to stay a few days and make it a vacation.”

“I'd pick Key West for a vacation, but I don't want to delay everything until then.”

Joe pulled up to the Dumpsters, and the two of them slung the bags into a squat green container, heard glass break when the last bag banged against a metal side. The garbage stunk. A fly buzzed her ear. Crows had discovered a fetid slice of bologna and were tearing it apart, hopping and pecking on the pavement.

“I'm supposed to see Toliver on Monday,” Joe said. “I'll ask if he thinks it's worthwhile. I tend to think we ought to go. Nothing to lose.”