I.L. Wolf - Her Cousin, Much Removed Page 3

  “Higson,” he said. “Higson Boggs. Are you sure?”

  “I’m staring at his name on the TV. And it’s not the kind of name you have trouble remembering.”

  “H-I-G-S-O-N B-O-G-G-S?”

  She took a few steps toward the television. “Yeah, exactly.”

  “That’s a heck of a name.”

  “Yeah. But he looks like a Higson Boggs. If you know what I mean.”

  “And you’ve never met him? Never seen him?”

  “I’d remember him if I did, he’s got a kind of, I don’t know, look to him. Odd. Maybe a little creepy. Or not creepy exactly. But I’d remember him.”

  “Are you sure it’s that strange that you’d never met him? Considering you weren’t, well, that friendly with Delenda?”

  “Don’t you think I’d have heard if my own cousin got married?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Anyway, thanks for the tip.”

  She put the phone down and went back to the TV, unpausing. Tipsy and Higson continued as though nothing happened. “—about your dear departed wife, Delenda,” Tipsy checked an index card in her hand, “O’Brien?”

  “She was the best. The best,” he said, his voice quavering, his eyes remarkably dry. “The best,” he said again.

  “That clinches it,” Venetia said aloud before she realized she’d spoken, “He’s never met her.”

  “Do you know what happened?” Tipsy continued on the TV.

  “No, no, I don’t. All I know is that the police called me to tell me my darling Delenda was gone. Gone. She was too beautiful for this world I guess.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Tipsy said brightly. “But they say it’s a murder, right?”

  Higson shifted a little as though trying to escape the frame. That was definitely her platter on the wall.

  “I really couldn’t say,” he said, his voice now more steady, and with a hint of an edge. “But whoever murdered her will be brought,” he moved his head and looked directly into the camera, “to justice.” Even on her tiny television, though she couldn’t identify exactly what was in his slightly-too-wide eyes, Venetia knew it wasn’t grief.

  Tipsy turned fully to the camera. “We’ll keep you up to date with the latest in the Delenda O’Brien murder case. Mason and Ashley, back to you.”

  “That sure is something, isn’t it Ashley?” said Mason.

  “You’re right there, Mason. You’re right there. And her poor husband, my heart goes straight on out to him. Now we know our viewers can’t get enough of cats, but can your cat—”

  The rest of Ashley’s sentence was lost to the ages as Venetia clicked off the TV. It was so like Delenda to take her platter and actually hang it directly onto her wall. Death wasn’t the only reason she wasn’t getting that back.

  Could Delenda have really been married? Granted, for cousins by marriage, they weren’t the closest, or close, or, well basically cordial, but shouldn’t she have known if Delenda had been married? Wouldn’t Billie, at the very least, have told her?

  She took her mug to the sink, eyed the dishes still there from the morning, and decided she’d give herself a break. It had been one heck of a day.

  Then again, she hadn’t gotten to tomorrow yet.

  ***

  Venetia was in a field, a beautiful endless one filled with wild flowers and waving grasses. So warm. So lovely.

  So late.

  She forced open her eyes to read the time on her alarm clock, which was sweetly chirping away to meadow larks. She’d overslept by a good ten minutes, and there was no way she was getting to work on time.

  With the fastest get-ready routine she’d had yet, she made it out the door and to her car before she realized she’d forgotten her phone. She ran up to get it. It flashed a missed call.

  It was going to have to stay missed for the moment. She hurried back down the stairs and into the lot, flinging her purse onto the passenger seat of her car. She screeched into the lot of Water me Green a hair before 8:30, where Julian was outside in front of the greenhouses. He gave her wave.

  “Venetia, I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” he called to her from across the lot.

  “I was late. I didn’t want to be late.”

  “I don’t care if you’re late. You’re not billing anymore. I swear, it’s like you’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder,” he said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Sorry to hear about Delenda,” he said as sincerely as he could.

  “Are you?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I can think of about eight thousand reasons,” she said, “and then she tried to sue you—”

  “Ah, that was nothing, it settled right away.”

  “Yes, but it cost you. In addition to what she owed you. I told you to file a countersuit.”

  “And here I was thinking that you weren’t practicing law anymore.”

  “And then she started badmouthing Water Me Green—”

  “You’re not very good at the not speaking ill of the dead thing, Venetia. Do you need time off for the funeral?”

  “I guess I will. Thursday,” she said

  “No problem.”

  “Aunt Sissy didn’t call you?”

  “Sissy rarely calls me,” he said, his eyes twinkling and his moustache twitching as he attempted to conceal his smile.

  “Lucky you,” she said. “How do you manage that?”

  “We’ve got quite a list today, why don’t you get your coffee and I’ll be in a second to split it up.”

  “OK,” she said, heading off through the greenhouse, taking in the smell of the plants and the dirt. She made her way back to the small office, and found her favorite mug. It had a plant lying on a psychologist’s couch, and the psychologist plant was saying “It’s all about growth.” She added her milk and sugar, found a not-dark pod for the coffee maker and hit the button.

  “Hiya doll,” Marlene said, her own cup of coffee in hand. “How’s it going?”

  “You heard about Delenda?”

  “Yep,” she said, taking a long sip from her mug and joining Venetia at the table. “I heard.”

  “They think it was foul play.” Venetia watched the stream of hot liquid not filling her cup fast enough. She really needed that coffee. She felt wiped.

  “Would that be surprising?” Marlene asked, getting up again and opening a white bakery box on the counter. “Chocolate glazed or chocolate frosted?”

  “I’m not really in the mood today,” Venetia said.

  Marlene looked back at her over her shoulder. “Chocolate glazed or chocolate frosted?” she said again.

  “Glazed,” said Venetia, taking the plate from her and her cup of coffee in one neat circuit.

  “The best thing to do at a time like this,” said Marlene seriously, “is eat.”

  ***

  The list of clients divided, plants loaded, Julian took off in the pickup and Venetia headed downtown in the spring-colored van with the “Water Me Green” logo on the side. The urban gardening job was a temporary one, Julian and Marlene needed the help, and after she left law, she needed the money.

  That was five years ago.

  But it was so low stress, she couldn’t seem to tear herself away from it. If a plant started looking bad, she brought in another one. If it was too big for her to deal with on her own, she scheduled the removal with Julian, and then there would be another plant, only slightly different than the first. Julian and Marlene nursed the sick plants back to health or didn’t, she watered and dusted, and nothing was life or death. Except for the plants.

  She’d really needed something that wasn’t life or death. Maybe Julian was right, maybe she did have post-traumatic stress disorder.

  The first client was a regular one, a slightly shabby corporate office with overgrown spider plants they insisted on keeping and maintaining. She made it through without anyone giving her a glance. Over time, she’d found that her smock was her cloak of invisibi
lity, that once she put on that dark green piece of fabric, she disappeared into the landscape of the cubicles.

  Two more uneventful stops, and then a medium-sized law firm. It always gave her half-the-willies and half-a-sense-of-satisfaction that she wasn’t going there every day for work.

  She waved to the receptionist, Tammy. She was on the phone, but waved back anyway. Setting the watering can on the small cart she brought up with her—marble floors and water spills were never a good combination—she started on the large Janet Craig Dracaenas on either side of the reception seating, spraying and then dusting the pointy, white edged leaves so that they were nearly indistinguishable from plastic. Not her choice, but it was what the law firm liked, which was about as expected.

  Half of her was behind one of the plants, reaching for the back leaves, when she heard the unmistakable sound of partner ripping into an associate.

  “What do you mean, you proofed it? Obviously if you proofed it, we wouldn’t have this problem. Good morning Tammy,” he added, speaking to the receptionist.

  “I put it through for your approval, Walter,” the associate said, treading lightly on the first name. It was rare that associates used a salutation like “Mr.” and a last name these days, but the bon ami was all surface and everyone knew it. His “Walter” still came out carefully, as though the “Mr.” was implied.

  “Don’t make excuses for your poor performance. This is inexcusable. Inexcusable that you would not include his relationship to the decedent in this document.”

  “Walter,” said the associate, his voice thin with the knowledge of the doomed, understanding that no matter how he responded, it would be the wrong way, “you told me to take it out. I’d written it in. I still have the revisions if you’d like to see them.”

  “The revisions? What is wrong with you? Are you not able to think, or are you slow?” A tall man, he commandeered the space between them, his aggression almost tinting the air, his voice quiet but sharp. “It’s not actually clear to me. How you got your degree is beyond me, because the level of incompetence that I see from you—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bloaerd? Mr. Boggs is here to see you now,” Tammy said, and from her corner behind the tree, Venetia saw Tammy tilting her head in the direction of someone obscured by the tree’s trunk. She scooted ever-so-slightly around, rewiping a few shiny leaves, in enough time to catch the associate shoot Tammy a look of immense gratitude.

  Taking care of the associates kept Tammy in chocolates and jelly beans, so it wasn’t entirely altruistic, but still, there was nothing quite like a receptionist rescue.

  The client stepped fully into view. It was the same man from the interview with Tipsy Nightingale last night, best as Venetia could tell.

  “Mr. Boggs,” said Walter Bloaerd, extending his hand, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. My associate and I were discussing your situation.” Higson regarded Walter’s hand, hesitated, and then shook it, limply.

  Walter strode across the reception area, waited for Tammy to buzz the glass door, and opened it, his arms wide. “Come in, won’t you?” Higson went through the door, followed by Walter, who let go of it as he went inside. The associate had made it about a foot away from the door when it closed in his face.

  “Tammy?” he said, his voice wooden.

  “Of course, kid,” she said, and buzzed it open. She waited until he was clear of the doors.

  “Ouch,” said Tammy. “That was a rough one. Poor guy.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ryan. Bryan, something like that.”

  “You don’t know their names?”

  “These days, it hardly seems worthwhile with the associates, they’ve been running through them like they’re on sale. But he was right about the drafts, I made the copies myself and put them in his box, and then the same with the notes.”

  Venetia moved to the other grouping of plants. “Tammy, come on, you know better.”

  “What? That’s not privileged. Besides, I’m not a lawyer.”

  “You’re still covered by privilege.”

  She shrugged. “If you say so,” she said. “And I have to tell you,” she checked to make sure the empty reception area was completely empty, “that Bloeard’s gotten worse and worse the last few months.”

  “Huh,” she said. “I wonder why.”

  “That I don’t know,” said Tammy, “but I hope it’s something bad.”

  “Tammy!” Venetia said, laughing in spite of herself.

  “What? Seriously, it couldn’t happen to a better guy. He’s a jerk to his wife too, I’m pretty sure he’s been having an affair.”

  Venetia shook her head slowly, smiling nonetheless. “Careful, from what I see, you don’t want to end up on his bad side.”

  Tammy snorted. “He wouldn’t dare,” she said, “I have all the phone numbers. And I keep the phone logs.”

  Loading her cart, Venetia waited by the glass double doors for Tammy to buzz her. “Ready,” she said, looking back at Tammy as her cart whacked her in the midsection, the flying door pushing the cart into her. Higson Boggs glowered as he blew through her, stopping only to issue a terse “excuse me,” without so much as glancing her way.

  Walter wasn’t far behind, the jovial smile still glued to his face. “Mr. Boggs, as I said, it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

  Higson reached the elevators and punched the button repeatedly. Walter strode after him, and Venetia managed to get out of the way this time. The elevator dinged open, and, without looking at Walter, Higson got in.

  “We’ll keep you up to date with the developments,” Walter managed to say before the doors closed again.

  Trying to look like she hadn’t noticed, Venetia pushed through the doors and kept going. She’d head to Bloaerd’s office first, it was always better to get his large tropicals all set when he was gone. His ability to pretend she wasn’t there while she was four inches away, watering, brought back enough law firm memories to give her the chills.

  As always, his gleaming desk stood empty. The oversized photos of brightly-colored frogs on each of the walls watched her, their pointy-ovaled pupils following her like the portraits in a haunted house. She wondered if he’d chosen them for their content or the photographer, or to make himself seem more interesting than a seascape would. Their vibrant colors, set against monotone backgrounds, were lurid, a bright nature’s warning to stay away.

  Maybe that’s why he picked them. The law, after all, was packed with subtext and double speak. Though Walter Bloaerd didn’t exactly strike her as the subtle type, given his performance with the associate.

  Hearing Bloaerd’s echoing voice down the hall, she packed up, giving one of his ferns half-a-spritz less than she normally would, and managed to get her cart loaded and out. She nodded at Bloaerd as he passed, but he looked straight through her.

  Chapter 5

  When Venetia finished with the law firm, she put her equipment back in the van and sat. She still had a few more clients to go, but there was room for a break before heading back to Water Me Green.

  She opened the glove compartment, pulling out her cell. Julian probably wouldn’t care if she kept it on her, but she felt like it seemed unprofessional. Besides, she liked the freedom of not checking it for a while.

  Two more missed calls, and she’d never returned the one from that morning. She brought up the list, they were all from Billie. She’d have to call her back later, she wasn’t in the mood.

  She stared through the windshield of the van, lost in thought. Those papers she’d gone through the night before looked like Delenda’s official business, and all of Delenda’s official business went through Billie in one way or another. She couldn’t be sure Billie wasn’t involved, at least in that part.

  Speaking of papers, she wondered if Detective James knew about the will. The only time anyone ever used the word “decedent” in a law firm was with a trust or will or some kind.

  Although at this point, she didn’t know what she knew about th
e will, really, besides the fact that there was one. And one recent enough for B/Ryan to have drafted it. He couldn’t have written it that long ago, given Tammy’s rundown of the quick turnover. And whatever it was or whatever it said, there was no question Higson wasn’t happy about it.

  “Ahem,” came from behind her.

  “Holy—” She spun in her seat, but with its height, she couldn’t see who had spoken.

  “Don’t turn around,” said a man. She craned her head to try to find him in the shadows in the back of the van. She hadn’t seen anyone when she put the equipment in, but there was mid-level stop so that the cart wouldn’t roll.

  “What the hell?” She dialed 9-1.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “I know who you are.”

  “Well, at least we both know who I am,” she said, dialing in the other 1, “and you better get the hell out of this van.” Her finger hovered over the dial button.

  “She didn’t have to die,” he said, “and neither do you. There will be a package outside your apartment tonight.”

  The phone hung limp in her hand. “What do you mean I don’t have to die? Who are you?”

  “I told you not to turn around.” The voice was cold. “Wait for it.”

  “What?”

  “The package.”

  “Why would I want to open something from some strange guy lurking in a van?” She tried to turn around again, but could see no one.

  “Stop turning around. There will be a package,” he said, “And you have to open it.”

  “What if I don’t want to open it?”

  Was that…chuckling? Was he chuckling?

  “There are a lot of people who’d like to see you take the fall, Venetia. And not all of them are dead.”

  “Fall for what? Who are you?”

  “What fun would that be? Open the package.”

  She heard a rusting and then the creak of the back doors opening. The van shook as he shut them. She watched the mirrors as he casually walked away, but only got a glimpse.

  Even so, she’d seen him somewhere before. She just couldn’t remember where.