Dark Tort

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

As I slipped down the embankment on my way to the road, I tried to think. I could not, could not allow anyone to go into the firm without telling them what they’d find. Shivering, I rushed across the street.

“Wait!” I called to the figures emerging from the pair of precisely parked black BMWs. Heeding me, two tall people stood outside their respective car doors, their arms crossed. As they gazed in my direction, they neither talked nor acknowledged each other’s presence. My breath wheezed in the cold, thick fog. Still, I recognized the commanding presence of lean, silver-haired Richard Chenault, the well-built, late-fifties partner who was Dusty’s uncle—the attorney we had dubbed King Richard. This week, King Richard was the only one of the three partners not doing continuing education on Maui.

Standing nearby was his soon-to-be-divorced doctor wife, the statuesque K. D. Chenault, formerly K. D. van Ruisdael. K.D., whom I liked and admired immensely, was an emergency-room doc who had known the Jerk—and hated him. During my divorce, she’d been one of my few supporters. K.D.’s black coat hung open; underneath it, she was wearing a surgical suit. Her long, light chestnut hair, held back in an ineffective ponytail, was slightly disheveled. I wondered if she had just arrived at the big Flicker Ridge house she and Richard still shared—while they fought over property—when the call from who knows whom had summoned Richard. As tired as I was sure K.D. was bound to be, if she was indeed coming after a shift, I could still imagine her insisting on driving out this late. Yes, the weather was inhospitably cold. But she would have wanted to see if she was needed.

“K.D.,” I gasped as I rummaged in my pants pockets for my set of office keys. “Dusty’s upstairs. It looks as if … as if her heart’s stopped. Maybe you could try to help her?”

In one swift movement, K.D. nodded, nabbed the keys, and turned to race up the steps to the firm.

“Dusty?” Richard Chenault asked me, his voice incredulous. “Our Dusty? What happened? Was there a break-in?”

“I don’t know.” I faltered.

A pair of H&J attorneys approached us from the other car. Donald Ellis, an associate at the firm who was in his midthirties, was short and very thin, with a pale face that bore the ghost of teen freckles. His shock of rust-colored hair glowed in the shrouded streetlight. Donald was a quiet fellow who holed up for hours in his office, which was more messy than Arch’s room had ever been at any stage of his childhood. While five of the seven associates had opted to join the partners in Hawaii, Donald had said he desperately needed to catch up on his paperwork. Which begged the question: How was he going to find his paperwork?

The other lawyer was the final associate who’d stayed home from Maui: Alonzo Claggett, or “Claggs,” as the other attorneys called him. I’d learned that fifteen years ago, he and his wife had moved from Baltimore to Vail, where they’d decided to slum it for a couple of years until their wedding-gift money ran out. When it had, Alonzo had continued to be a ski bum while his athletic wife, Elizabeth, whom everyone had always called by her nickname, Ookie, taught squash during the day and worked as a waitress at night. When Ookie’s parents had heard their country-club-raised daughter was spending her evenings waiting on tables, they had flown out to Colorado and created a family storm that rivaled any hurricane ever to hit the Chesapeake Bay. So much for slumming.

Claggs, humbled, had finally figured the only way to feed his skiing habit was to do a law degree at the University of Colorado and live and work within an hour’s driving time from the resorts. Ookie had gleefully begun work as a squash instructor only, and the two of them had embarked on their happily-ever-after life. Or so it always seemed to me.

Alonzo had dark curly hair and blue eyes, the startling product of mixing an Italian mother with a WASP father. He was slightly taller than yours truly, and as slim and fit as a short basketball player or tall gymnast. He frequently came into the law firm with Dusty, since he worked out at the new Aspen Meadow rec center, called the Butterfield, where Dusty rode the exercise bike. I’d always thought it made Dusty feel appreciated, one of the gang, to come into the office at Alonzo’s side, although Louise Upton, the ultrasevere office manager, clearly disapproved. One didn’t mix the lower and higher totems on the pole, after all.

And of course, I realized belatedly, with only three lawyers working in the firm this week, I probably shouldn’t have expected a bevy of joke-playing attorneys to come jumping out of nowhere to yell, “Surprise!” when I tripped over Dusty.

The final car that had pulled into the lot made me shudder, but not from the cold. It was Louise Upton, in the dark green Lexus she’d bought used at a great price, as she always told anyone who would listen. She banged out of her car and began to stride toward Richard. She was wearing a long gray coat that emphasized her broad shoulders and broad backside. Her step was military stiff, but as she marched, her steel-wool pad of hair did not budge.

I recalled the time I’d pointed out two errors of grammar in my contract, a contract that had been drawn up by one of the partners, to Louise, or Miss Upton, as I’d been told I should call her. She was a sixtyish, formidable guard dog of a woman, and she had told me if I wanted to be the firm’s caterer, I needed to learn my place. She’d actually said that: I needed to learn my place.

When I’d quietly asked her what my place was, she’d told me she didn’t think I was cute. Not one bit. And if I wanted to act cute, and make grammatical corrections to my contract, I could tear up said contract, and they would simply find somebody else to cater their meetings.

While I’d frowned and pretended to contemplate a saddle nailed to the wall in the cowboy-themed conference room, I’d tried to think of a cute joke, or at least how I could make a cute-acting exit. But we’d been spared a confrontation by the sudden appearance of Donald Ellis. When Donald had summoned Louise and told her she was needed in a partner’s office, I’d quickly penned in the needed corrections, initialed them, and signed on the dotted line. Acting distracted, Donald had taken over the negotiation and said how much they appreciated the fact that such a well-known local caterer would be working for them. In fact, he was going to recommend that his wife, Nora, hire me for their next party. Then he’d told me to go make him some coffee, and bring it to him. When Louise Upton had reappeared, Donald, the contract, and yours truly had all disappeared. The office manager was not a happy camper.

So. Ever since then, I had not been Louise Upton’s favorite person. I’d figured I could do without her friendship, but the upcoming confrontation was bound to be particularly terrible. Lucky for me, the chilly nighttime fog prevented me from reading her facial expression, which was sure to be negative.

“Goldy!” Louise exclaimed. “I would like to know—”

“Louise!” Richard Chenault barked. “Please be quiet!” He turned to me. “Goldy, I’m worried about you.” His suddenly caring tone penetrated the soup of frigid mist. “Are you all right? Do you have any idea what happened to Dusty?” Richard’s silver hair was swept up and back in a way most folks, present company included, found intimidating. But his tanned, handsome-featured face was quite young-looking. It was a disconcerting combination, the gleaming, neatly combed hair and the gorgeous, unwrinkled face with its startlingly pale gray eyes. I dreaded telling him that his niece Dusty Routt—daughter of the ne’er-do-well brother who’d abandoned his family—might be dead.

“It’s bad,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I found Dusty …”

“You found Dusty?” Donald Ellis echoed. He glanced up to where K.D. had gone. “In the office?”

“Yes.” I inhaled. “She was here to help me cook for the Friday breakfast meeting. When I arrived, she was on the floor, not moving. I don’t know what was wrong with her. She … she wasn’t breathing.”

“Omigod,” said Alonzo Claggett. “You called for an ambulance?”

I assured him that I had, and it should be along any minute. Meanwhile, I added grimly, maybe K.D. would have some luck reviving her. I hugged my sides. I was chilled to the bone, and the sweatshirt Vic had given me still wasn’t helping.

“Everybody looks cold,” Richard said, his voice gentle but firm. “Let’s go inside and check on Dusty and K.D.” He lifted his chin at Donald, Alonzo, and Louise, to indicate that everyone should follow him.

“We probably ought to avoid the office,” I managed to say. My breath came out in a ghostlike puff. “I mean, we should wait for the cops.” I wasn’t quite ready to say, Because it might be a crime scene.

“I have a key to the second conference room,” Richard said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. “It’s down the hall from our office. We hardly ever use it because it hasn’t been redecorated yet.” He said, “Let’s go, everybody,” then walked purposefully toward the sidewalk.

“I feel a little dizzy,” Alonzo said, his voice low.

“Sit down on the ground,” I commanded, quickly putting an arm around him. “Let me lower you.”

“I’ll help,” Donald offered. His voice cracked, too, but he had enough composure to take on half of Alonzo’s weight and get him down to the curb. “Try to breathe, Claggs.”

“I’m okay,” Alonzo replied weakly, when he clearly was not. He bit his upper lip and took several deep breaths. “We need to get inside—I mean, to the conference room, where Richard wants us. I just feel so … cold, all of a sudden.” He inhaled several lungfuls of air and then announced that he was getting up.

“Lean on me,” Donald directed, as he grunted and groaned, and finally hauled Alonzo up from the pavement.

We followed the others. Our footsteps made gritty sounds as we headed up the main steps to the office. I scanned the parking lot, but there was still no sign of emergency vehicles. I prayed K.D. was having more luck with Dusty than I’d had.

Once we were inside the building, our little brigade marched past the closed door to the office. There was no sign of K.D. At the far end of the dark hall, Richard ushered us into a dusty, scruffy-looking Queen Anne–style conference room. Dimly lit with filthy crystal chandeliers, the space had an oak floor covered with a navy-and-burgundy Oriental rug, an oval cherry conference table, a hidden sink, and a grit-covered glassed-in cabinet that housed wine and double–old-fashioned glasses, along with cups and saucers. Hanging on the walls between brass-and-crystal wall sconces were Charlie Baker drawings, these presumably less valuable than the actual paintings in the H&J lobby. Despite the grime, I liked this space much better than the cowboy-style insanity of the main office. But maybe clients wanted to be reminded they were in the West.

Richard began: “This woman I know called me and said she saw someone hurrying over from the law office. She thought maybe you were a burglar. Donald and Alonzo happened to be at my house, discussing a case, and came with me, as did K.D. We called Louise on our way over. Were you hurt? Was there an assailant outside our office? Had he gotten inside?” His gray eyes bore into me, at once concerned and wanting to get at what exactly was going on. “She said you were hysterical.”

“Well—” I began.

“This same woman said you banged on the door of that art-and-music store until it broke. Then you demanded that somebody call an ambulance and the police.” Again, his sharp eyes questioned me.

“I don’t know what happened, Richard,” I began, whereupon Louise Upton loudly cleared her throat. Well, tough tacks. I wasn’t going to call him “Mr. Chenault” when he had repeatedly told me not to. “Richard,” I went on, “I’m just telling you what I saw when I came in to start the bread for your meeting with clients tomorrow. Dusty was lying on the floor of the lobby.” I pressed my lips together and took in all their faces. “I think … I don’t think … I need to say that I very much doubt K.D. will be able to revive her.”