thing…okay, it is if they break the law, but otherwise I adopt a “don’t ask, don’t care” policy.
“Know anybody that might?” he says into the silence.
“Her attorney.”
Carson leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. I barely notice that little gesture because I’m fixated on the sleek body under his white shirt. He’s taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, which is one of his sexiest looks in my book.
My smile begins when he asks if I have a local phone book and becomes a full grin when he explains he needs my help in calling the local lawyers to see if we can find hers.
“Alfred Grimstead, two doors down from the dollar store.”
Carson frowns. “You know who her attorney is?”
“Everyone over the age of fifty uses Grimstead. Those under fifty use Louise Habbard, who just happens to be his niece. Her office is also two doors from the dollar store.”
“That’s your logic?”
I nod. “This is my town. Trust me. If I’m wrong, you can decide how to punish me.”
Carson lifts his eyebrows and gives me a mock evil grin. “Oh, you don’t know how much I hope you’re completely off the mark.”’
Unfortunately, I’m right. Grimstead’s secretary tells us to come on down, that he’s due back from court in about twenty minutes. I plug my cell phone into the charger under the dash of Carson’s vehicle and am relieved it doesn’t ring from the time we leave my house until we find a parking place just down the street from the attorney’s place. I don’t know which I dread most, an SOS from Eugene or a call from Luther telling us about the latest local lunatic.
“Nice digs,” Carson offers in a sarcastic whisper as we top the stairs and step into Grimstead’s office. I sincerely hope the rent is cheap because the carpet’s got to be twenty years old, the furniture is early attic, and there’s a suspicious floor creak as we walk to the receptionist’s desk. Actually, secretary and sole employee’s desk, it turns out. She smiles before motioning toward a couple of faded velvet chairs.
“Mr. Grimstead is in,” she said, “and looking forward to meeting you. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
Apparently, lawyer time is like hospital time and “a few minutes” means whenever your name is called. I’d flipped through all the hunting magazines and was starting in on the fishing ones when the secretary announced, “Mr. Grimstead will see you now. Please follow me.”
Carson straightens his tie and squares his shoulders as he falls in behind her. Normally he’s a gentleman who has me go first, but since an official police presence is required, I figure maximum invisibility is good. When he suddenly stops, I bump into him with a small “oof,” which shoots my shadow theory. Neither of us realized that “follow me” actually meant, “here, I’ll open his office door.” Turns out that Grimstead’s desk backs onto the same wall as the secretary’s, except in another, only slightly larger room.
“Carson Hayes, Ohio Bureau of Investigation.” Carson offers his hand and a business card. I sink into the chair in the corner as the two men do the pleased-to-meet-you dance. One thing I learned long ago was that intimidation is a handy talent when dealing with attorneys, and I can’t even get Miss Priss to respect me.
As I expected, the conversation is formal. Carson asks a question; Grimstead dances away from it. The only interruption is when the secretary walks through the room with a middle-aged couple behind her and shows them through a door at the far side. That, I assume, is Louise’s office. Either that or it’s the bathroom and this is one of those couples that do everything together.
So far Carson’s managed to uncover zip from old Grimstead. Nada. Nil. All he’s learned is that Miz Waddy owns her store/living quarters outright, an inheritance from her father. That there is a provision in her will to hire a
“Know anybody that might?” he says into the silence.
“Her attorney.”
Carson leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. I barely notice that little gesture because I’m fixated on the sleek body under his white shirt. He’s taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, which is one of his sexiest looks in my book.
My smile begins when he asks if I have a local phone book and becomes a full grin when he explains he needs my help in calling the local lawyers to see if we can find hers.
“Alfred Grimstead, two doors down from the dollar store.”
Carson frowns. “You know who her attorney is?”
“Everyone over the age of fifty uses Grimstead. Those under fifty use Louise Habbard, who just happens to be his niece. Her office is also two doors from the dollar store.”
“That’s your logic?”
I nod. “This is my town. Trust me. If I’m wrong, you can decide how to punish me.”
Carson lifts his eyebrows and gives me a mock evil grin. “Oh, you don’t know how much I hope you’re completely off the mark.”’
Unfortunately, I’m right. Grimstead’s secretary tells us to come on down, that he’s due back from court in about twenty minutes. I plug my cell phone into the charger under the dash of Carson’s vehicle and am relieved it doesn’t ring from the time we leave my house until we find a parking place just down the street from the attorney’s place. I don’t know which I dread most, an SOS from Eugene or a call from Luther telling us about the latest local lunatic.
“Nice digs,” Carson offers in a sarcastic whisper as we top the stairs and step into Grimstead’s office. I sincerely hope the rent is cheap because the carpet’s got to be twenty years old, the furniture is early attic, and there’s a suspicious floor creak as we walk to the receptionist’s desk. Actually, secretary and sole employee’s desk, it turns out. She smiles before motioning toward a couple of faded velvet chairs.
“Mr. Grimstead is in,” she said, “and looking forward to meeting you. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
Apparently, lawyer time is like hospital time and “a few minutes” means whenever your name is called. I’d flipped through all the hunting magazines and was starting in on the fishing ones when the secretary announced, “Mr. Grimstead will see you now. Please follow me.”
Carson straightens his tie and squares his shoulders as he falls in behind her. Normally he’s a gentleman who has me go first, but since an official police presence is required, I figure maximum invisibility is good. When he suddenly stops, I bump into him with a small “oof,” which shoots my shadow theory. Neither of us realized that “follow me” actually meant, “here, I’ll open his office door.” Turns out that Grimstead’s desk backs onto the same wall as the secretary’s, except in another, only slightly larger room.
“Carson Hayes, Ohio Bureau of Investigation.” Carson offers his hand and a business card. I sink into the chair in the corner as the two men do the pleased-to-meet-you dance. One thing I learned long ago was that intimidation is a handy talent when dealing with attorneys, and I can’t even get Miss Priss to respect me.
As I expected, the conversation is formal. Carson asks a question; Grimstead dances away from it. The only interruption is when the secretary walks through the room with a middle-aged couple behind her and shows them through a door at the far side. That, I assume, is Louise’s office. Either that or it’s the bathroom and this is one of those couples that do everything together.
So far Carson’s managed to uncover zip from old Grimstead. Nada. Nil. All he’s learned is that Miz Waddy owns her store/living quarters outright, an inheritance from her father. That there is a provision in her will to hire a
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