Authors: Cindy Davis
Final Masquerade (21 page)
Paige settled herself in a corner chair with a recent issue of Ladies’ Home Journal. She'd thumbed through twenty or thirty pages of advertising when the phone on the desk buzzed. The buzz must have been a signal because Thad never acknowledged it other than to say, “You may go in now,” and began poring through the mimeographed pages of the topmost folder.
Paige entered the inner office belonging to E. Leahy, first name unknown, and came face to face with E. Ellen, Elizabeth, Evelyn, Edwina—or whatever. But, E. Leahy, to Paige's extreme surprise and consternation, was a female.
Her uneasiness, which had begun in the outer office with a man who looked but didn't sound like a lawyer, intensified as she gazed at a woman who looked more like someone's grandmother than a lawyer. She always felt that lawyers should be men. A male attorney lent credence and a surety that neither sentiment nor emotion would be allowed to play any part in upcoming proceedings.
"Good morning, I am Esther Leahy. Call me Esther. Please sit down."
Paige selected one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the heavy mahogany desk. She gazed at the Minneapolis skyline through a gauze curtain.
"Thad tells me you're interviewing lawyers. I think that's admirable in a time when so many people are in a hurry. They are prepared to settle for the first thing that comes along, much like eating at McDonalds instead of Burger King because it was the first one in the strip mall parking lot."
"Oh my word.” Paige rose and, forgetting her manners, strode across the room. She feathered a palm across the burnished red furniture. “Where did you get this Chippendale settee?” She ran her hands over the sleek dark finish, then onto the fine brocade upholstery. “Look at the detailing on this ribbon-back!"
"I picked up the set in Virginia at—"
"The set? You have the entire set?"
"Yes.” Esther said proudly, pointing across the room at the matching arm and side chairs. “Beautiful aren't they? So, you know a little something about antiques, do you?"
Paige straightened up and went back to her seat in front of Esther's desk, which was also an antique, although not so rare as the Chippendales. “Could you tell me where your legal expertise lies?"
"Of course. Most of my clients are family people. People who need advice on matters dealing with real estate, bad debts, neighborhood disputes—and in a city this size you can be sure neighborhood disputes are a common occurrence,” she said with a smile, lacing gnarled fingers on the desk atop a green blotter.
"Also, I handle divorces. That's very difficult for me because often I've had both the litigants as clients for many years, some of them since I opened my practice. Then one of them comes to me in tears saying the other was a louse or—excuse the expression—a bitch, that he or she has been unfaithful. It shows me a side of them that I'd never seen before. So depressing.” Her tightly permed gray curls nearly rattled as she shook her head.
"So, tell me about yourself. Are you married? Is this visit divorce related?"
Paige smiled and ran a hand through her hair. “Heavens no."
"I didn't think so. You're not distraught. No red eyes or tissue clutched in white knuckles. Would you care for a cup of coffee? I feel the palpitations coming on and if I don't have my caffeine fix, I turn into a trembling bundle of nerves.” She rose and poured coffee from a half full pot on a sideboard.
Paige shook her head. “No coffee, thank you. And, you're right, I'm not here because of any emotional entanglements. As a matter of fact, I am not an overly emotional person. I am usually logical and organized. I'm new in town and find that I'm in need of some assistance in a problem which I've brought upon myself."
"Ah, I see.” Esther took a long sip of coffee and leaned back in her leather swivel chair. She laced her hands across her bosom and waited. “Tell me about yourself, dear. Where are you from?"
"I...” she began. “Originally I'm from the Boston area."
"Really? I don't notice any trace of accent."
"Well, I was only born there. My family moved to the Midwest when I was eight."
"Tell me about your parents?"
"They died in a car crash when I was fifteen."
"I'm so sorry."
"Same old story, a drunk driver. It was a long time ago, I'm over it,” Paige said, allowing a dispirited look to cross her face.
"No, dear. I don't think you have."
A wave of acid welled up in Paige's stomach and she rose. “Could I use your bathroom?"
A frown creased Esther's waxy skin. “Of course."
Paige gave the Chippendale set a wistful glance as Esther led her through the outer office, past Thad who was typing rapidly on the computer keyboard. Across the hall, Esther patted Paige on the shoulder. “See dear, you really aren't over it.” She pointed to an unmarked door identical to that of her office. “I'll be in my office."
Paige nodded and smiled weakly. She waited inside the shiny bathroom with its pink sink, pink toilet, and pink tiled floor, until she heard Esther Leahy's office door click shut.
Paige used the facilities, then peeked into the hallway, waited for a dark suited figure to enter an office at the end of the hall, then sneaked to the elevator hoping Ms. Leahy didn't poke her head out in search of her wayward new client.
It wasn't until she was on the street that Paige took a cleansing breath. Li'l old Aunt Bea wasn't the lawyer for her.
Paige left the hotel after breakfast the following morning prepared to explore her new town prior to her interview with the second lawyer. Wearing a smart blue dress and matching shoes, she walked north along Hennepin Avenue, thinking about the conversation she'd had with the attorney over the telephone.
For nearly a half-hour they'd talked about nothing more than weather in Minneapolis, what there was to do, what sort of people resided here. She'd hung up the phone feeling confident that this might be the one she could trust to handle her affairs and at the same time keep her name and identity a secret.
Lost in thought, she nearly missed a sign advertising a bookshop in the nearby alley. Tucked at the end across from a bakery, the thick plate glass window distorted the images of the pedestrians and buildings across the way. The door creaked as she entered, spilling out an overwhelming cloud of whiskey and cigarette smoke. She wavered and nearly backed outside feeling a pang of sadness at the memory of her bookman friend Shamus Baxter. Not that the somber unkempt individual behind the counter reminded her of the wizened gray-haired Shamus in the least. Years of hard drinking had reduced this man to a slovenly, overweight blob who looked as though he'd become rooted to the stool on which he sat.
She returned his grin and ran her eyes around the dimly lit shop. No shelves. Just stacks upon stacks of milk crates, orange crates, cardboard and wooden boxes on their sides, filled with books, each individual stack looking like it would topple if a person sneezed. And sneezing was a definite hazard here.
She visualized Shamus hobbling into this shop. First he'd scowl and complain so everyone could hear about the deplorable conditions the books were forced to reside under. Then he'd smile and dive in holding a handkerchief over his nose. “Places like this,” he'd told her often, “are where a book dealer finds some of the best deals, besides a Salvation Army Thrift Shop, that is. You'll find some of the danged best deals in the thrift shops, if, and that's a capital IF,” he'd punctuate the comment with a gnarled index finger in the air. “
If
you can find a place where some moron hasn't done the pricing with a damned magic marker! Why I once found a mint copy of
A Farewell to Arms
for a quarter. Turned around and sold the thing for $150 the next day."
Paige rummaged through the crates finding very little that interested her, being mostly anthologies of essays or town histories, but she recalled another tidbit Shamus had imparted. “Never give up. You never know what the next title will be."
Her patience paid off. At the bottom of the very second box, which teetered at the top of the mountain of cardboard, was a book that caused her heart to palpitate. It wasn't possible. She tried to control her trembling fingers as she examined it closely, recalling what Shamus taught her. This very title was one of the last books the two of them had discussed. She had to be mistaken.
She nearly replaced it in the box. If she ended up on the run again, it would have to be left behind. What the hell, the price was only $5. She slid the book gingerly across the counter, praying the counterperson wouldn't bother to check the asking price.
"Are you the owner here?” she asked.
"Yes. Almost thirty-five years. Name's Max Baumgartner."
Glancing at her watch, she realized she was nearly late for her interview. “Oh heavens, I have to hurry. I have an appointment in fifteen minutes.” She pushed a five-dollar bill toward Max, who wrote a receipt and pocketed the cash.
Paige stood on the crowded sidewalk trying to flag down a taxi, anxious not to be late for her appointment with the lawyer. This time no deceptive initials marred the name of William Harold Dunn, a strong, authoritative name, a name in whom Paige could confide her problems, thoughts, and plans. A man who might possibly become her savior.
Attorney Dunn's home was denoted by a small tasteful white sign with gold lettering at the head of his wide oyster shell driveway, in a neighborhood of stately homes of mixed ethnicities.
"Quite the digs, huh?” the driver asked.
"Yeah.”
Much like my ex-home in Santa Barbara.
Paige asked the driver to wait for her and handed a twenty over the seat. “I'll be twenty minutes, tops."
The driver pocketed the bill and snatched a newspaper from the passenger side of the seat. “Take your time."
Paige lifted the heavy knocker and tapped it discreetly against the raised panel door. It was opened by a crusty paralegal. A dog barked from somewhere inside and was quickly stifled.
"Good morning, I have an appointment with Attorney Dunn,” she said.
The woman backed several steps, opening the door to its full extent. “Please. Come in. Right through here, Attorney Dunn is waiting."
Paige was ushered into a large darkly paneled room with an enormous desk of exactly the same reddish hue setting atop an equally large braided rug. A figure stepped from behind the desk, a figure over which she, at five foot seven, towered by at least six inches. She knew immediately the reason he'd stepped from behind the desk to shake her hand was that he couldn't possibly reach across it.
She grasped the feathery hand protruding from a prickly looking black suit. The man had pale skin, strawberry blond hair, and looked as though he might be approaching puberty sometime in the future. His physical attributes, although definitely a detriment to Paige's concept of impregnability, were something she may have been able to overlook. After all, she told herself, he had to go through the same schooling and pass the same bar exam as all other lawyers.
When he cocked a beaming politician's smile upon her and said, “My, my, aren't we a pretty little thing,” she nearly said
ditto.
Then he put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. That's when Paige turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.
She didn't wait for a maid to let her out. She flung open the door and raced outside, hearing it crash against the wall, hoping the knob knocked a hole in the expensive brocade wallpaper. By the time she'd flown down the marble steps to the waiting cab, she was stone faced. The cabbie threw her a look of consternation and opened his mouth to speak, but obeyed the wave of her hand and sped away. They were in the heart of the city before he attempted to speak again.
"That creep back there get fresh with you or something?"
"What?"
"That lawyer. He try something with you?"
"Why ever would you think that?"
"You were only gone sixty seconds."
Paige muttered an obscenity under her breath.
"You need a lawyer?"
"I didn't go there to buy a computer."
The driver squealed the cab to a stop outside her hotel and rummaged through his wallet. “Look, there's this lawyer, he handled a case for my wife and me a while back. Did a bang up job. Ah-ha. Here it is.” He held up a business card with tattered edges and nearly illegible embossing. The driver snatched a pencil from over the visor, retraced the name and phone number, and handed it over the seat.
She took the small rectangle of paper.
"Look, the first appointment is free. You got nothing to lose by talking to the guy."
Paige nodded and gazed at the pencil tracings on the once-expensive paper. T. Harrison Berkeley, Esq. with an address in downtown Minneapolis. “Thank you very much for your concern."
"You won't be sorry."
At the hotel, Quentin interrupted his discussion with someone to smile and wave at her. She waved gaily back as she trotted past, skirt flowing behind. She cast a sidelong glance at them as she waited for the elevator. The men had their heads together, earnest expressions, occasionally glancing in her direction. The short, stubby stranger leaned against the counter on one foot, the English bowler hat dangling in his left hand out of place in today's blue jean and t-shirt world. She shook off the trepidation that crept over her like a hoard of centipedes. Something about him was familiar. Had she seen him before?
In her room, she tossed the business card on the dresser and hung her jacket in the closet. She leaned elbows on the windowsill wondering when the clouds had crept through. The sky was gray, mirroring her mood. She'd intended to spend the afternoon calling other lawyers but decided against the idea.
She took her newest acquisition from her bag and tenderly opened the cover of Stephen King's first book,
Carrie
, the rarest of all his novels. Both the book and the jacket were in mint condition. And, most exciting of all, this copy was signed by the author. Paige was afraid to think about the amount of money Shamus had said it was worth.