Verdicts & Vixens Read online

  To be honest, Vern freaked me out a little.

  Curt smiled up at me over the top of the grill. "How's life at the asylum?"

  "Same old," I said. "Janice bribed me to go to a client's wedding in her place. And volunteered me as the maid of honor. Good news, the bride hired me."

  He frowned. "Why's she hiring bridesmaids?"

  I did a palms-up shrug. "Don't ask me."

  "I think that's practical," Maizy said. "Avoid the bouquet brawl and the sappy speeches."

  "Some people like the sappy speeches," Curt told her.

  "Some people like calamari, too." She turned to me. "Who's the groom?"

  I cracked open a can of Coke. "Have you guys ever heard of Oxnard Thorpe?"

  "Sure," Maizy said. "The Adult Diaper King of New Jersey."

  I blinked. "The adult…what?"

  "He founded No Flows," Curt said. "Adult diapers? Live life in the dry lane?"

  "Incontinence is a major problem," Maizy said. "I hear that one out of every, like, five people over thirty has an incontinence problem. Is that true, Uncle Curt?"

  Curt grinned. "Nice try, Maize."

  "Dry or not," I said, "he almost got me fired after I spilled a cup of hot tea on his tidbits."

  Curt smiled, showing me the full force of his dimples. It was stunning. "Tell me you did that on purpose."

  "I did it when he pinched my butt," I said.

  Maizy sat up straight. "That's sexual harassment. You could sue him. Is there a bruise? Let me see."

  I frowned at her. "I'm not showing you my butt."

  "Why not?" she asked. "I'll let you see mine."

  "I'll let you see mine," Curt said.

  "You can see Vern's," Maizy added.

  I glanced at Vern. He might have leered at me. It was hard to tell since he had no face.

  "I don't want to see your butts," I told them.

  "You're so provincial," Maizy said. "God."

  It wasn't a matter of provincial. It was a matter of the safety pin holding the elastic waistband of my underwear together.

  Curt stacked the burgers onto a plate. "So are you going to do it?"

  "Howard wants someone from the firm there," I said.

  "Then Howard should go," he said.

  "I'll do it," Maizy said. "But not for five hundred. I won't get out of bed for less than eight."

  "You get out of bed for Alpha-Bits," Curt told her.

  "That's different," she said. "Marriage is a trap. Why hook up with some loser who'll just spend your money?" She put the burgers on the table. "By the way, can I borrow twenty bucks?"

  Curt and I looked at her.

  She shrugged. "My earning power is in its infancy."

  We sat down.

  "I think you should go," Maizy told me. "I'll come with you if you want. You get in tight with Oxnard Thorpe—you've got it made. Hey, maybe he'll give me a loan. I could use some cash."

  "Need a new belly button ring?" Curt asked her.

  "I'm thinking of making the move from CZ to real diamond," she said.

  "Nice," he said. "Maybe you should buy some whole shirts while you're at it."

  She rolled her eyes. "You always say that, Uncle Curt."

  "It's my job," he said. "And you always ignore me."

  "That's my job," she said. "What do you think, Jamie?"

  I shuddered. "There's no way I'm getting near that pervert again."

  "You know the rent is due," Curt told me.

  "Once the wedding is over," I said. I waited a beat. "It might be nice if you came with me."

  "I already told you I'd go," Maizy said.

  "Not you," I said. I glanced at Curt. "You."

  "I appreciate the thought," he said. "But I told Cam I'd help him frame out his addition."

  "Oh, yeah," Maizy said. "I heard my parents talking about that. My mom said the only way he'd get a man cave is if he built it himself. Why do all guys want man caves?"

  "To get away from teenagers," Curt said.

  "Good one," Maizy told him.

  "What's more important?" I asked. "Framing a man cave or making me happy?"

  He waggled his eyebrows at me. "I can think of a better way to do that."

  I felt that waggle down to my toes. And other places.

  "Don't worry about him," Maizy said. "I've got your back."

  She could have it. I was saving the good parts for Curt.

  CHAPTER THREE

  There had been a few changes at the firm since one of its founding partners, Doug Heath, had made his final summation. Mainly that another founding partner, Howard Dennis, had rechristened the firm Parker, Dennis, because he wanted it to sound less like a personal injury mill and more like a big city firm that handled multinational class action suits. I was tired of fielding calls asking for Mr. Parker Dennis and I'm sure the directory information people stuck pins in a Howard doll on a nightly basis, but my opinion mattered about as much as a sale mattered to a kleptomaniac.

  Then there was Wally Randall, Boy Lawyer. Wally was tall enough to be naturally imposing, serious enough to speak to an examined life, and pompous enough that he had already commissioned his judicial portrait. He'd been in practice for two years.

  Another one of Howard's ideas had been office meetings, although nothing went on at Parker, Dennis that didn't filter through the support staff first. So at two fifty-five Monday afternoon, I took my seat in the conference room next to Missy Clark. Missy was a fellow drudge in name only, one of those rare people who had life figured out. Easy when you had a pretty face, a knockout body, and all the goods on your boss.

  The paralegal, Donna Warren, was already there, since she spent most of her time in the conference room fondling law books and hiding from clients. Donna occasionally showed hints of a spine, but invariably her true character crept back to peek out from behind a corner.

  Janice slipped in at the stroke of three and stood in the corner across the room without looking at me. Smart.

  Howard swept in on a current of grim impatience. Howard's grimness was his sole discriminating feature. The concept of Casual Fridays was foreign to him, as was civility and a good haircut. He believed that no phone call should last longer than three minutes, that his ascension to the Bench was inevitable, and that civil juries were inherently pro-defense. Howard was not a happy man, but he was a busy one. He was usually leashed to a briefcase, a trial bag, or an expandable file, and labored under this burden much the same way Jacob Marley had labored under his.

  The senior partner, Ken Parker, strolled in behind him, sat down near the head of the table, nodded and smiled at us, yawned, and closed his eyes. Ken was the perfect example of what a dignified gentleman lawyer should be, even if he'd passed his prime five years ago.

  Wally hustled in on Ken's heels, trying to squeeze around him to get the seat closest to his idol, Howard. He didn't make it and had to settle for being two seats removed.

  Following all of them was a cleaning woman of mid-something age. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut short. Her pantsuit was mud-colored, paired with a matching plastic headband and Earth Shoes.

  "Quiet, people." Typical Howard, always with the pleasantries. "Meet Eunice Kublinski. Eunice recently passed the bar and has agreed to bring her legal talent to Parker, Dennis."

  So Howard had found a rookie to take Doug's place. Not that her lack of experience mattered—it was probably a benefit. For the next year or two, Howard and Wally would dump grunt work in her lap, saving the glory of fat settlements and bloated jury verdicts for themselves.

  "A few facts," he forged on. "Eunice attended—" He looked at Eunice.

  Eunice looked back at him.

  "—college," he prompted.

  "University of Coventry." She swallowed visibly. "Online."

  Howard paled. "Coventry. And for law school—" Back to Eunice.

  "Harvard," she said, practically whispering.

  "Harvard?" Wally repeated in disbelief.

  Eunice nodded. "Harvard Ac
ademy of Law and Mortuary Sciences."

  Silence.

  "So." Howard clapped briskly. "Let's welcome her to the firm, shall we?"

  I'm not sure how welcome she felt after a tepid round of applause and a snort from Wally.

  Howard was trying to coax up a smile with no lips. "Why don't you say a few words, Eunice?"

  "I'm very happy to be here," Eunice said obligingly, but she didn't look very happy. More like petrified. Even Donna was peeking over the top of her book with sympathy. "I'll sue lots of people," she added.

  Howard beamed approvingly. "We look forward to that. Thank you, Eunice." He waved her off, and she collapsed into a chair, blotting her forehead. He scowled at the rest of us. "I'm sure you'll each do your best to make Eunice feel comfortable as she settles in."

  There was some noncommittal murmuring.

  "After all," he said, pushing his luck, "we're a family here."

  Giggles floated over the top of Donna's book.

  "Now get back to work," Howard snapped. "Or you'll all be out on the street."

  If it was a family, it was a dysfunctional one.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The rest of the week was a maelstrom of boredom, fatigue, and aggravation capped off by the realization that Mick Jagger was right: you can't always get what you want. I'd wanted Oxnard Thorpe's house to fall off the map before Friday, but it was just where Sybil had said it would be, in a ritzy gated enclave. Lots of grand columns and floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors plunked down on a lush lawn fringed with rampant flowers. The knockoff statue of Michelangelo's David in the circular driveway tinkled gently in the fountain. David could have used some No Flows.

  Shaking my head, I squeezed in behind half a Mercedes dealership. My Escort sat there like the pimple on a teenager's nose on prom night, leaking blood spatters of oil and polluting the atmosphere even with the engine off.

  Oxnard answered the door. "Julie." He groped for my hand.

  I was determined not to give it to him. "Jamie."

  "Of course," he said. "Sybil's in the sitting room with Lizette. She's waiting for you."

  I stepped into the foyer and was immediately goosed by Oxnard. Yelping, I leaped to my left, straight into a three legged occasional table. The vase on the table teetered back and forth before somersaulting to the floor. Miraculously, it didn't break. Until the table crashed to the ground on top of it, and then it shattered into hundreds of slivers.

  Sybil materialized in front of me. "What was that racket?" She noticed the ex-vase, and her face practically melted.

  "I, uh…" I swallowed. "He, uh…"

  Oxnard managed to play innocent while I felt as guilty as John Dillinger at a bankers' convention.

  "I certainly hope you aren't this clumsy at my wedding," she snapped. "Look at this mess!"

  I looked, not at the mess, but into the sitting room, where a motley lineup stood. Lots of leg and cleavage and bleached and teased hair. They were watching me like I'd just kicked Oxnard's cane out from under him. Figured they hadn't turned when he'd been using my backside as an ambulation device.

  "Don't fret," Oxnard said. It wasn't consolation as much as command. "The vase is fully insured."

  "You did this on purpose," she hissed at me.

  More like the groom had done it on purpose.

  "It was an accident," I said.

  Sybil fondled a piece of vase. "My engagement gift," she moaned.

  He gave pottery as an engagement gift? What a romantic.

  "Maybe you can glue it," I suggested. "That Gorilla Glue is pretty good stuff."

  "One doesn't glue a $750,000 vase," Oxnard snapped.

  That vase—I glanced at its earthly remains—was worth three quarters of a million dollars?

  "Come, my pet." Oxnard squared her shoulders, dusted her off, everything short of a pat on the backside. He'd already gotten that out of the way, with me. "Don't ignore your guests. I'll tend to this." He tended to it by snapping his fingers and barking orders at the underling that scurried in to clean up the mess.

  Sybil dragged me into the sitting room where the lineup had melted away. "Jamie Winters, meet my wedding planner, Lizette Larue."

  Lizette Larue juggled a laptop in one arm and pumped my hand with the other. The one wearing six hundred bangles. Our handshake sounded like a symphony of wind chimes. "You make quite an entrance," she told me with no trace of a smile.

  "Those ballet lessons are finally paying off," I said.

  She studied me for a few seconds before turning to Sybil. "Friend of the family?"

  Sybil sighed. "The new maid of honor."

  "I fear for this wedding," Lizette said and flounced off. I'd never seen anyone flounce before, so I watched until she disappeared. It was very dramatic.

  "Help yourself to some hors d'oeuvres." Sybil waved at a sea of empty surfaces. "There may be something left in the kitchen."

  As long as that something wasn't her. Between the bride and groom, my skin was ready to crawl off.

  The kitchen was a study in austerity. Black granite, stainless steel, white cabinetry. No sign of food there, either, except for that tray half hidden behind a gorgeous brunette talking on her cell phone.

  "They're not paying me enough to put up with that old geezer," she was saying. "Do you know he grabbed my—"

  I cleared my throat. The brunette gave a start and dropped her phone in the tray of…was that shrimp? Darn. I never liked shrimp.

  "You startled me." She fished her phone out with two fingers. "I didn't know anyone else was here."

  "I didn't hear anything," I assured her. "So you're being paid, too?"

  She poured some Perrier onto a napkin and wiped down the phone. "Who'd do this for free?"

  Was the entire bridal party on the payroll? I felt cheap.

  "That guy's got his hands everywhere," she said. "Good thing I'm getting a commercial spot out of this."

  "You're an actress?"

  "If you say so." A few more wipes, and the phone disappeared into a tiny clutch. "I'm Dusty Rose. Kudos for breaking that hideous vase. Wish I'd have thought of it."

  "It was an accident," I said. "He grabbed my—"

  "Yeah, he grabbed mine, too." She shrugged. "Doesn't matter how old they are, men are all alike."

  I nodded again. Like I had a clue about men.

  "It's the Viagra," she said. "Too bad it doesn't give them any more finesse."

  I thought of Curt and said nothing. If Curt had any more finesse, I'd need a defibrillator.

  "Well." Dusty gave me a high wattage smile. "Time to earn my big break. I've been waiting forever for this. No more pimple cream layouts for me." She glided away.

  Not sure that she'd moved up in the world.

  "She's a piece of work, isn't she?" a voice asked behind the hanging rack of pots and pans.

  I turned to see a Helen Mirren knockoff clutching a champagne flute, looking after Dusty. The way she was swaying back and forth, I doubted she could actually see her. On the other hand, I could see that behind the impeccable hair and makeup, she was about two decades older than the rest of the bridal party.

  "And to think I took off work for this," she added. "What was I thinking?"

  Evidently she'd been thinking there'd be free booze.

  I shrugged. "I thought she seemed nice."

  "Nice." She wrinkled her nose. "The woman models diapers, for God's sake. You're not one of them, are you? You don't seem the type."

  That explained the similarity among the women.

  "I'm Bitsy Dolman." She slapped a business card into my palm. Dolman Personal Shopping with a swanky address in a nearby town. Interesting. When I looked at Bitsy Dolman, I didn't see swank. "Give me a call sometime," she said. "I'm semi-retired, but you could use a professional's help. How long have you known the bride?"

  "I don't," I said. "Mr. Thorpe is a client, and I'm here on behalf—"

  "At least she had the sense to hire Lizette," Bitsy plowed on. "At my recommendation, na
turally."

  "No offense," I said, "but it doesn't seem like you really want to be in the bridal party."

  She let out a cackle. "Bridal party! Don't get me started on that."

  No problem there. I backed away. "See you at the wedding."

  "Wedding." She snorted. "Don't get me started on the wedding. And the groom. Don't get me started on him."

  I left Bitsy to her ranting and rejoined Sybil and Lizette. I might not have found food, but I had found an idea. Maybe there was an easier way to earn Janice's bribe.

  "Are you sure I'm the best choice for maid of honor?" I asked Sybil. "Bitsy Dolman seems much more…"

  "Sophisticated?" she said.

  "Refined?" Lizette suggested.

  I frowned. "Experienced," I said. "I've never been a maid of honor. I really don't know what I'm doing."

  "You'll be fine," she said. "As long as you don't break anything else."

  "That's the thing," I said. "I can't guarantee that. I'm pretty clumsy."

  "It's probably the shoes," Lizette said, giving my flats a disdainful glance.

  Hey, I never pretended to be Vogue material.

  "It might be my inner ear problem," I said. "It makes me dizzy, and I tend to fall a lot."

  "I haven't seen you fall," Sybil said.

  "But how much have you seen me stand?" I said. "I sit a lot. My leg muscles are very weak. They can barely hold me up some days."

  "I haven't noticed you had weak legs," Sybil said.

  "It's because of my foot problem," I said. "My foot problem makes it painful to walk."

  "Sounds like we should have paramedics on standby," she said. Very deliberately, she plucked a tissue from the box on the table, dabbed at her eyes, and said, "I can't believe you want to abandon me the day before my wedding. Oxie wanted me to ask Abigail to be my maid of honor, but I said no, I want Jamie."

  "You should've asked Abigail," Lizette said. "She has fewer medical problems."

  "Who's Abigail?" I asked.

  "It doesn't matter now," Sybil said. "I asked you, you said yes, and now you're saying—"

  Geez. "Forget it," I cut in. "I'll get a few Ace bandages."

  "Make sure they match your dress," Sybil said.