This Case Is Gonna Kill Me (20 page)

“Yeah, the zone of total exhaustion,” I muttered to myself. The locker room smelled of sweat, steam, hair spray, and perfume. I ran through the shower, styled my hair with one of the provided hand hair dryers, put on my makeup, and headed back to the office. By the time I walked back through the summer heat I needed another shower.

My stomach was sending up emergency signals to my brain.
Hey, we’re empty down here.
I stopped in the kitchen for a big glass of water, averted my eyes from the half a donut that remained in the box, and went back to my office.

I worked a bit on an environmental case I’d been assigned and then it was two o’clock and Mr. Bryce arrived. He was in his forties, with graying brown hair, bright blue eyes, a long face, and a prominent nose. He was also in a wheelchair. I jumped up and hurried around the desk to push the client chair out of the way.

Once Bryce was situated in front of my desk, we exchanged handshakes. “Ms. Ellery,” he said in a clipped, upper-class British accent.

“Mr. Bryce. Nice to meet you.” I returned to my chair.

Norma inquired about beverages. Mr. Bryce went with a Coke. I asked for coffee. She left.

“Now, Mr. Bryce, what can I do for you?” I picked up a pen and prepared to take notes.

He had a slim black attaché case tucked between his hip and the arm of the chair, which he pulled free and laid on the desk.

“I just purchased the license to run a venerable old riding facility in Brooklyn, and a pair of developers are agitating the city to turn over the land to them. I’m determined to resist. Would this be of any interest to you at all?” he asked rather anxiously.

“Oh, definitely. I’ve ridden my whole life, and everybody always forgets quality of life in this town in favor of the pursuit of the Almighty Dollar.” I broke off, blushing. “Sorry, didn’t mean to go on a rant.”

“Quite all right. I prefer to have someone with passion handling the case, and Mr. Ishmael thought you might be the right person for my little problem.”

“Do go on.” I waved the pen.

He continued. “It was built in 1867, it’s on some prime acreage, and the pond scum—”

“Meaning the developers?”

“Yes. They’re telling the city they could be making so much more tax revenue if the property was changed into high-rise offices or condos.”

“Developed by the pond scum, I presume?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

“Does the pond scum have a name?”

“The Kellog Group.”

I wrote it down. “Is the city going to try eminent domain?”

“I think that’s where they are going.”

“That’s not good news, because it may be tough to beat. The Supremes handed down a case a few years back,
Kelo v. City of New London
, that basically gave a city the power to condemn land for just such a purpose.”

“Oh, dear.”

He looked so upset that I hastened to add, “But that case caused such an uproar I’m not sure a city, even Brooklyn, would want to risk it. Is there community support for the stable?”

“Very much so. People like to walk through the woods on the property, and jog and ride bikes on the riding trails. The current management wisely banned motorized bikes, since some horses find bicycles quite terrifying enough, but I digress. It’s powerful business interests that find us offensive. And I do have something that might be of help.”

He opened the flap on his case and pulled out a document. I took it and had a sinking sensation when I read the opening words.
I, James Harris, being of sound mind and …

I couldn’t help it. I blurted, “Oh God, not another will.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m working on a long and ugly case over a contested will,” I answered.

“And you’d prefer not to have another.”

“That about sums it up.”

There was a discreet tap on the door, and Norma brought in my coffee and Mr. Bryce’s Coke. She left again, closing the door behind her. I began flipping through the pages of the document.

“The relevant section is on page eleven, about midway down,” he offered.

I flipped to that page and found the relevant section. I read it and reread it, then looked up at my client.

“According to this, Mr. Bryce—”

“Please call me Jolly, or Joe.”

He just didn’t look like a Joe, and the Brits seemed to be all about silly nicknames. “Okay, Jolly, according to this document the underlying land already belongs to the city.”

“Yes, it was deeded to them at the time of Mr. Harris’s death in 1883.”

I went back to reading. “And it states that the property can only be used for a horse facility, and if it ever ceases to be a horse facility the property reverts to the Harris heirs.”

“Quite so.”

“Well, they can’t claim eminent domain on something they already own.”

“Could they let it go back to the heirs so the developers could then buy the property from them?” Jolly asked.

“Very unlikely. Once a property has been left to a state or a municipality, they never give up the asset. Political opponents would charge them with squandering an asset, violating their fiduciary duty, and being in thrall to special corporate interests.”

“All of which would be true in this case,” Jolly said with a smile. “So, it sounds like we’re home free?”

“I think so. It’s an unusual clause. It grants a license to someone to use the improvements on the property. It states that the license can be transferred so long as the transferee continues to operate it as a horse facility.” I looked up at Jolly. “Is that what you did?”

“Yes, I bought the license from Mrs. Maddy Unger. She’s been running the facility and giving children riding lessons for fifty-eight years. But she decided to retire.”

“Good God, how old is she?”

“Eighty-seven,” Jolly said with a smile. “And she rode up until last year.”

“Okay, that’s an inspiration.” I read through a few more sections of the will, but it looked like the lawyer who had drafted it back in—I flipped to the final page and read the date—August 31, 1877, had done a good job. “Okay,” I said. “I think we’re good. I’ll contact the Brooklyn city attorney and point out this little fact.” I waved the pages of the will. “But it wouldn’t hurt if you marshaled public support.”

“I’ll get on the press and public opinion angle right away,” Jolly said as he maneuvered back from the desk and turned his chair around so he faced the door.

I could tell from his expression that he wanted to say something more. “Was there anything else?” I asked.

My encouragement worked, because he turned his chair around to face me and said, “This will probably sound strange, but I was wondering if you would be willing to ride my horse for me?” He gestured down at his legs. “Obviously I’m no longer able to ride in any meaningful way, and this is a magnificent creature who needs a job and a partner. Mr. Ishmael told me you are quite the horsewoman. I don’t know if that would be some sort of conflict of interest.…” He allowed his voice to trail away.

“If I were representing Brooklyn in this dispute, then yes, it would be a conflict. But for us, no. And I would love the chance to ride regularly. What style? Tell me about the horse? How much training?” I pressed my lips together so I’d stop babbling.

“He’s a young Lusitano stallion, Vento. Blazingly white, ready to show Prix St. George. Once he has his tempi changes he’ll be ready for the Grand Prix.”

“So he has the passage and the piaffe?”

“They will amaze you. He’s very sensitive and sensible. It’s like dancing a tango with the perfect partner. So it’s settled?”

“Absolutely! When can I start?”

“How about this evening? There’s an indoor arena, so once winter comes you can still keep riding. Even after one of your very busy and long days.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tonight. I’m going to see a show. Friend of mine is in the chorus. Rain check?”

Bryce handed me his business card. “Call whenever you want to come, and I’ll have Vento ready for you.” He began to roll his chair back so he could get into position to head for the door. I jumped up to open it for him. He looked around the office, at the lighter squares on the walls that marked where Chip’s diplomas and pictures had hung and the stacks of
Abercrombie
files. One eyebrow quirked up and he said, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

It took me a moment to grasp his meaning. Then I looked at my space and realized that there was no touch of my personality. My diploma was on the wall to my left, and that was it. I hadn’t even unpacked my wind-up Godzilla yet.

“Hmm, yeah, I guess it is a little … stark, isn’t it?” I said.

“You might say that.”

“I haven’t had this office all that long, and things have been…” I groped for a word and settled on “hectic.” I paused and then added, “I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity.”

He smiled up at me, and there was an expression in his eyes that made him look like an impish ten-year-old. “It was all part of my cunning plan. Once you ride Vento, you’re going to want to continue, and you won’t be able to do that if we can’t keep the stable open.”

I debated whether to be offended at the implication that I wouldn’t work hard without a bribe, but I decided that wasn’t his intention. Sometimes men of a certain generation can be a bit clueless where professional women are concerned.

“Don’t worry if you come late. If you ride past sunset there are lights on the outdoor arenas as well as the indoor.”

“Sounds good.”

“Do you want directions?”

I shook my head. “Google Maps and HopStop are my friends.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand my world,” Jolly said as we headed for the elevators.

“Now you sound like a vampire.”

“Meaning what?” David called, his acute, undead hearing allowing him to pick up my words even though I was on the opposite end of the room from him.

“That you’re dinosaurs and eavesdroppers,” I said in a normal tone of voice, assuming David would hear. Judging from the way his mouth twisted, he did, but I couldn’t interpret the expression.

Once Jolly was on the elevator and on his way, I headed back to my office with a decided spring in my step. I had a horse to ride again. And cases of my own.

*   *   *

Ray was dancing in a revival of
Auntie Mame.
I emerged from the subway and headed toward Forty-fourth Street and the St. James Theater. Occasionally people in the flowing crowds would stare down their noses at my roller bag since I was now a double obstacle on the crowded sidewalks. I realized I could have left it at the office, and I cursed myself for an idiot. It was too late now.

I went around the corner onto Forty-fourth Street, where marquees on various theaters presented a lot of revivals of older hits interspersed with musicals based on Disney movies and TV shows. I wondered when audiences had lost their taste for anything new and innovative. Was it because the audiences for Broadway shows skewed older? But why not embrace some rock-and-roll musical based on the antediluvian music of the Stones or the Beatles?

Or maybe it was the emergence of the Powers. Given their conservatism, it wasn’t surprising that they weren’t interested in a hip-hop Broadway musical or a show built around Facebook or online dating sites. But that generalization didn’t really fit either. Werewolves tended to be found in the world of business and finance, and creating a successful new business meant you had to be forward leaning, not worrying about making better buggy whips. I chuckled out loud. Yep, vampires were definitely buggy-whip guys and werewolves were definitely killer-robot guys.

Or maybe it was about people retreating to the familiar in a desperate attempt to find some sense of security.

Or maybe the new shows and music just sucked, and that was why people wanted to see
My Fair Lady
or
Oklahoma!
over and over again.

I reached the theater, got my ticket from the will-call window, checked my bag with the bored coat-check boy, and headed to my seat. I loved the atmosphere in the old theaters, many of them built back in the 1920s and ’30s. I could picture gentlemen in tuxedos opening the doors to Packards or Dusenbergs and assisting women in fabulous furs, long gloves, and sparkling diamonds as they stepped out.

At the curtain call, Cole Porter or George M. Cohen would step out onto the stage and take a bow with the cast members, and then you and your date would head off to some club with an improbable name—the Copacabana, Clam House, the Nest—and eat supper and dance until three in the morning.

I watched a very large couple trying to wedge their enormous rear ends into the narrow velvet upholstered seats and made another extrapolation—people were a lot smaller in 1930. Then the conductor walked into the orchestra pit, accompanied by a ripple of applause, and I settled back to enjoy. Act One ended with the fox hunt and the big
Mame
production number.

Ray looked really cute in his red hunt coat, white britches, and tall black boots. Of course the “boots” were pliable so he could dance. Not like my dressage boots, with the steel rod up the back to keep the boot stiff and my leg in the correct position. Boots made me think about riding, which made me think about Ryan. I banished him from my thoughts.

The show wound down to the reprise of “Open a New Window,” the curtain rang down, curtain calls were taken, and the crowd began to disperse. I recovered my roller bag case, went around to the side of the theater and the stage door, and talked my way inside.

There was the smell of hot lights beginning to cool, grease paint, cologne, flowers, and sweat. Ray was in the chorus members’ dressing room. People were running in and out in various stages of undress. There were kisses and hugs, and the roar of conversation as excited performers relived the performance and began to come down off their performance highs.

Ray was talking with friends while Gregory tried to wipe off the excess cold cream smeared around Ray’s ears. Ray spotted me, let out a shriek of delight, bounded over, and hugged me hard. His skin was greasy against my cheek, and I just knew my makeup was also falling victim to his cold cream.