I.L. Wolf - Her Cousin, Much Removed Page 4

***

  Still shaking, she found herself sitting in a coffee shop up the street fifteen minutes later, one-and-a-half refills down. She was looking over the menu, but she wasn’t sure she could eat. She’d locked the van, she knew she locked the van, she had no idea how he got in. It had never occurred to her that this job, the job that was literally about creating one little oasis after another, could go so dark.

  The bell dinged above the door, and a harried-looking Detective James scanned the room, finding her in the corner table she’d chosen.

  “Got here as fast as I could,” he said as he scraped a chair away from the table and sat in one fluid motion. He signaled the waitress for a cup of coffee. “What happened?”

  “I’m not even sure,” she said. “He must have been in the van already when I got in.”

  “And you had the phone in your hand and you didn’t call the police?”

  “I called you, didn’t I?”

  “Not quite the same thing.”

  “I can’t explain it, it was like I had to hear what he was going to say. He knew my name. He knew about Delenda.”

  “That’s not so unusual,” he said, smiling his thanks to the waitress who poured the coffee in a smooth, arcing stream. “It’s all over the news.”

  “I should have been scared, or more scared, but I wasn’t.”

  “You look pretty shaken up,” he said. He was right, her skin had taken on a pale cast, and her hands shook a little.

  “I don’t think I really thought he would hurt me. Until he told me that I didn’t have to die like Delenda.”

  “Did he actually say it like that? ‘You don’t have to die like Delenda?’”

  “She. He said ‘she’ didn’t have to die. He has to be talking about her, right?”

  “I think you’ve had an intense day or so, maybe it’s not the best time for you to be back at work.”

  She sat back in her chair, her eyes level, her shoulders squared. “Are you about to call me hysterical or a more polite synonym?” she said. “Because I’m pretty sure that anyone would have been freaked out to find a stranger in their car who then talks to them about their recently deceased cousin. And some ‘package.’”

  Detective James rested his notebook on the table, his mini pen already in motion, but at this last he paused. “He told you about his package?”

  “Not his package, and seriously, could you be any more juvenile? He said I’d get a package tonight.”

  “Go through it, from start to finish,” he said.

  “That’s about it,” she said. “He made his presence known. He told me not to call 911. He said that I didn’t have to die like Delenda. Oh, and he said she wasn’t the only one wanting to frame me.”

  “Right,” he said.

  “Right?” she said. “What do you mean, ‘right?’ What do you know?”

  “A lot,” he said, “and there’s no way Delenda wrote those documents on her own, which means if she was involved, she had help.”

  “I see you’re getting to know Delenda. He told me there would be a package, but he didn’t say what would be in it, only that I had to open it, and then he left.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Not his voice,” she said, the coffee kicking in, finally. “But when he walked away, I caught a glance, and I think I’ve seen him before. I don’t know where.”

  “Ok,” he said. He closed the notebook and took a big gulp of coffee. “I’ve got to run.”

  “Wait, what about the will?”

  He clunked the cup back in the saucer and looked at her evenly. “What do you know about the will?”

  “What do you know about the will?”

  “I know what I should know at this point,” Detective James said, “but I’m curious as to how you know anything.”

  “I know that Higson Boggs is probably a beneficiary,” she said.

  “That would make sense, since he’s supposed to have been her husband.”

  “Ah, but that’s the interesting part,” she said. “Apparently the marriage was not mentioned in the will.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Corn’s not the only plant with ears.”

  He relaxed back into his chair. “You’re a little bit surprising,” he said. “I see you’re feeling better. And don’t use that joke again, it’s terrible. What else do you know?”

  “That it was recently changed.”

  “Two for two so far,” he said, a small half-smile on his face. “Care to make it a triple?”

  “Higson Boggs went to see his lawyers today, and he did not leave a happy camper.”

  “Eh, I’ve heard better.”

  “Well, if his beloved wife died yesterday, why’s he in his lawyer’s office talking about it today? Doesn’t it strike you as weird?”

  “I guess it does,” he said.

  “Come on, I’ve told you everything, you’re holding something back,” She sipped her coffee.

  “You’d better get used to that in this particular situation. Do you have anything for me on the corporation?”

  “Not yet,” she said, “but I’m working on it. I think you should know that I’m going to nag you until you tell me whatever it is you’re not telling me.”

  “Venetia, you know there is no earthly reason for me to share information.”

  “There is if you want the package.”

  “We can get the package, and that’s silly, I know you’re not going to interfere with the investigation.”

  “I mean if you want to be there when I get the package,” she said.

  His lids lowered about half way, and his lips were tight, but there was the hint of a laugh behind them. “I’m pretty sure you want us to be there when it happens,” he said.

  “Fair enough,” she said.

  He thought, and then he looked around. “If Delenda was married,” he said, “there would be a record of it, right?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Marriage license. The marriage has to be registered with the county records office where the wedding took place.”

  “Huh,” he said.

  “But if they didn’t get married here, there wouldn’t be a record here. You know, if they got married in another state. Or country.”

  “Huh,” he said again.

  “This one sided information exchange isn’t really working for me,” she said.

  “So finding a marriage certificate could be complicated.”

  “Somewhat, but not for you. You have to have access to databases. Not to question your police superpowers, here, but shouldn’t you know the answers to these questions?”

  “Should I?” he said, taking another gulp from his cup.

  “You should.” And then the penny dropped. “Which means you’re telling me something.” She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

  “And getting longer. I thought you were faster than that. If, of course, I was trying to give you information with my questions. Which, of course, I wasn’t.” He rotated the cup on his saucer, slowly, with one hand, his eyes on the swirling liquid.

  “So you haven’t found any proof that Higson and Delenda were really married,” she said.

  He smiled at his cup. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said, “but no. It can take a while, but no.”

  “Well, then that thing I heard today makes more sense.”

  “Did you leave something out?”

  “I guess, but I didn’t know if it was important. Turns out that the lawyers never saw the marriage license either.”

  “But they drafted the will with him as the sole beneficiary?” he said. It took him a second. “Damn it.”

  “I heard nothing,” she said, eyes widely sincere, her head shaking slowly. “Nothing at all. I don’t know if they did or they didn’t, but he wasn’t mentioned as her husband in it. And he was definitely not so happy about it.”

  “You’ve got some of your color back,” he said, his eyes a pleasant shade of sea-green. “That’s goo
d.”

  “I’m feeling a little better,” she said, “the Nancy Drewing helps.”

  “Do you like Thai food?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Thai food. Do you like it? Do you eat it?”

  “Sure,” she said slowly, “but that was a strange, abrupt change of subject.”

  “I’ll bring some,” he said. “Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” She felt a flush rising, and a hint of the shaking returned, though this time it felt entirely different. “Detective James, are you asking me out on a date? Because that seems like it would be a little inappropriate under the circumstances.”

  He laughed, the sound of it bouncing around the room. It wouldn’t be a bad laugh, if it wasn’t directed at her.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, “you’re clearly a quick healer. I meant I’d bring some when I came by later. To wait for the package. Remember the package?”

  Venetia pressed her lips together as though to hold back her own laugh as she nodded. “Right. The package. Thanks, that would be nice of you.”

  “And make sure you keep those doors locked, especially until I get there. You have no idea what his real motives may be.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He might want to be certain you’re home when he wants you to be home. You’re sure he didn’t have a weapon?”

  The sense of fun she’d felt a few minutes before dissolved. “I can’t be sure of anything,” she said, “I couldn’t really see him.” She rested her elbow on the table and let her chin fall into her hand. “It was true, what he said?”

  “What part?”

  “That it’s not only dead people who want to frame me.”

  “It’s tough to say at this point, but it certainly looks that way.”

  “I never knew she hated me that much.”

  “You don’t know that she hated you.”

  “And if she hated me, the other person—or people, it could be people, I hadn’t really thought about it. If she did, then they must too.”

  “Not everything is about personal feelings,” he said.

  She looked up from the table, where she’d been tracing the pattern of the laminate with her eyes. “It’s weird,” she said, “That you are so readily sharing with me. You shouldn’t be. Why are you?”

  “I know who you are,” he said simply, standing. He pulled out his wallet and put some money on the table. “I do my homework.” He got halfway to the door of the restaurant, and then came back. He bent, both hands on the table and looked her directly in the eye. “And if it had been me, I probably wouldn’t practice law anymore either,” he said.

  Chapter 6

  Venetia stared at the empty doorway for a while after he’d gone.

  “More coffee, hon?” The waitress hovered above her, pot in hand.

  Venetia shook her head no. “Thanks,” she added, watching the woman step away, her back broadened by the crisscross of the faux straps of her sewn-on apron.

  That he’d found out about Brenna shouldn’t have surprised her, he was a cop, after all. And it wasn’t as though it hadn’t been everywhere, when it happened.

  Still, it was rare anyone would say anything to her now. These things fade from the memories of everyone else, but it wouldn’t fade from her. Not when it was her fault. It was her fault, even knowing, on some level at least, she’d done everything she could. But there had to have been more, something she missed, some way she could have stopped it.

  When Brenna Chale came in for her consultation, the office was half-lit and empty, with Dane and the secretary already gone for the day. She’d insisted on making the appointment directly with Venetia, and told her she wanted to be certain it wouldn’t be listed in the appointment books or put on Venetia’s electronic calendar. She offered only her maiden name.

  “He’s a powerful man,” she’d said, sitting so lightly in the upholstered office chair, she nearly floated above it. She adjusted the scarf at her neck, absently. “He can’t know I’ve been here.”

  Venetia smiled at her as reassuringly as she could. “I couldn’t tell him if I wanted to. Attorney-client privilege. Until the case is filed, of course. He’ll have to know then.”

  “There’s no other way to do it?”

  “Sorry,” she said, resting back in the leather of her chair. Her elbows formed angles on the armrests. “We have to give notice. And then there will be assets to divide—”

  “I don’t want anything,” she said quickly. “I want to get out.”

  Venetia leaned forward, her gaze direct. “Are you afraid for your safety?”

  “You have no idea,” Brenna said.

  “We could file under the domestic violence statute, then. You can get out of the house, and the filings won’t include your location.”

  Brenna closed her eyes, put her hands to her face, and Venetia got the box of tissues ready in case. But when she pulled her hands away, her eyes were dry. “He doesn’t need court filings to find me,” she said. She reached down to the floor to pick up her purse. Even Venetia, who knew nothing about the value of purses aside from how much they could carry and how likely it was to lose your pen in one, could, nonetheless, tell it cost more than a month of billable hours.

  “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time, Ms. Shipman. I’d hoped I could get free, but there doesn’t seem to be a way.”

  “You said your husband was prominent?”

  She half-raised an eyebrow. “Powerful is not always the same thing as prominent,” she said. “But he is known.”

  “Does he have a regular attorney? Someone he uses routinely?”

  “He has a few.”

  “I could reach out to the one who handles his more personal business, and see if we can reach a settlement. It happens all the time, the details are worked out before the case is ever filed.”

  “I’m not afraid of his reaction to the divorce being public,” she said. “I’m afraid of his reaction knowing I want to leave him. He won’t handle it well.”

  “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  “I mean there’s a good reason I’m here,” she said, indicated the small rental office space, deep inside the office building where were few windows, “as opposed to one of the high-end firms.”

  Keeping her thoughts to herself, Venetia took a sip of coffee from the plain mug on her desk. Finally she spoke. “You’re welcome to go elsewhere,” she said, “if you’re not comfortable here.”

  “There is no elsewhere,” said Brenna. “They all talk. They all stand together at the bar and drink whiskey at $1000 per plate dinners. They play golf in the summer and racquetball in the winter. And that they do all that and you don’t know it, that’s why I’m here.”

  “So you came to me because you think I’m out of the loop.”

  “Exactly. I don’t mean to be insulting, Ms. Shipman, but this is my life, and I am incredibly close to losing it.”

  “How do you think he’d react to being served with an Order of Protection?”

  “You mean a restraining order?”

  “Yes.”

  “It absolutely wouldn’t matter,” she said. “Not a bit. If he wants to get rid of me, a sheet of paper won’t do anything.”

  “If you’re not interested in a property settlement, and you don’t have children, why do you want the divorce? Is there someone else?”

  For the first time, a wave of something bright flashed across her pale face, and then was gone. “Maybe,” she said, the word warm. “Maybe there’s a hope of someone else. But mostly I’m hoping that the divorce will be a chance for him to give me a clean break. We loved each other, you know?” she said, and with those last words, Venetia could hear she hadn’t grown up wearing scarves and expensive handbags. “We really did, once. And if I don’t ask for anything, if I just go, maybe he’ll let me.”

  It turned out Brenna was right. Unfortunately, she was right about the restraining order, not him letting her go. He didn’t in
the end.

  ***

  Venetia finished up with her clients, returned the van and equipment back to Water Me Green, and made it home by 4:30. That was the other part that made the job so hard to give up; Julian and Marlene weren’t picky about hours, as long as the work got done.

  She got to the top of the stairs near her unit and froze. Something felt weird. She checked out the hallway, but didn’t see anyone, It was possible that someone had only gone into the garbage room, a pretty regular occurrence.

  Maybe she wasn’t only being jumpy, she had good reason to be jumpy. Why couldn’t the car guy have given her an idea of when he intended to be there? Then again, guys who hide in the back of vans aren’t the best at making appointments.

  She considered her options. She couldn’t quite see her door from here, but she could try to make it to her apartment. She had to go straight past the garbage room, though.

  Or she could head back downstairs and call Detective James. Again.

  She wasn’t all that fond of being the damsel in distress, and he was coming over anyway. Come to think of it, he hadn’t specified when, either.

  Something caught her eye near her door. There was definitely someone there, and as the figure moved, she caught a whiff of something.

  Flowers of Grace, the least aptly named perfume known to humanity. “Billie,” she called as she came out from behind the post, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to hear ‘Hi Billie, it’s nice to see you got out,’ instead,” she said. Venetia smiled at her. She’d managed to get herself all the way to her usual level of made-up, which was very, including that ridiculous and ever-present perfume. It was the kind of thing that would smell a little young on a teenager, but Billie had been wearing it for years.

  Looking both ways, Venetia unlocked her door and motioned Billie to come inside.

  “You didn’t return any of my calls,” said Billie

  “I’ve been a little busy,” she said. “Besides, I was at work.”

  Billie flopped herself onto the sofa. “Do you have any of that green tea?”

  “Probably.”

  “Not the plain green tea, though, the kind with the branches in it?”

  “It doesn’t have branches in it,” she said.