story.
“I didn't think to ask George why he chose that way to reach the murder scene,” said Samuel, by way of another pitiful explanation.
Of course, it was no less than the truth, I told myself, as far as it went. The fact that George had arrived at the bridge in one of the police wagons—then walked to our house to wake my brother—was, if only by omission, the lie. Really, I thought, guarding Samuel's covert life was becoming far too complicated!
“Perhaps there were no cabs handy at such an early hour,” my brother finished lamely.
The firelight reflected in Papa's eyes, streaking them with darting shafts of flame, and making his usual jovial face appear sinister. He studied Samuel for a long, uncomfortable moment, then turned his gaze on me. I shifted in my chair, but said nothing which might thrust us any deeper into this hole we'd dug for ourselves.
When it became clear that neither of us was prepared to add to this woefully weak fabrication, Papa shook his head and sighed.
“Evidently I was mistaken when I assumed the two of you had matured beyond the age of ten. Don't think I'm too old or addled not to recognize when my own children are having me on. And it would be a mistake to assume that I won't eventually get to the bottom of this, because I promise you I will.”
He continued to regard us over the rim of his coffee cup as he drained the dark liquid. This time, when he poured fresh brew from the silver pot, he added rather more brandy to his cup than he had previously. Stirring the hot liquid, he once again turned to my brother.
“Although you hardly deserve it, I have good news for you, Samuel. I was speaking this afternoon to Arthur Cunningham, of Cunningham and Brill Attorneys, and he said his firm would be pleased to take you on as an associate when you have passed your state bar examinations.” His eyes narrowed. “You are planning totake the exams in early February, are you not, son? I believe you indicated as much the last time we had this conversation.”
I watched my brother's Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed hard. “I, ah, actually, I haven't signed up to take them yet.” At our father's tightening expression, he quickly added, “But of course I will—first thing tomorrow.”
“See that you do,” Papa told him sternly. “You have put off taking this last step for entirely too long. You could do a good deal worse than to accept Arthur Cunningham's generous offer. It's all well and good that you've been working part-time as a paralegal for—” He looked at Samuel questioningly. “What's the name of that lawyer friend of yours? I'm always forgetting it.”
“Andrew Wayburn,” Samuel answered a bit feebly.
My brother and I exchanged a quick glance. I was one of the few people who knew that Samuel's paralegal work for Andy Wayburn was more fiction than fact, a handy way to account for the income he actually brought in as a crime reporter. In truth, Andy had inherited a comfortable nest egg upon his father's death, and had engaged in little real legal work since passing his own bar examinations. As one of my brother's old school friends, he was happy to let Samuel use his name in order to explain his mysterious livelihood.
“You know, it's strange that I've never met Mr. Wayburn,” Papa said, giving him a curious look. “You'd think that after all my years on the bench, I would have run into the man at least once.”
“Actually, Andrew handles mostly wills and probate,” Samuel told him. “He spends little actual time in court.”
“I see,” said Papa, although I wasn't sure if he truly accepted this explanation. “Nevertheless, it's time you join a more established law firm. At Cunningham and Brill you'll be able to experience all aspects of a distinguished practice from the ground floor up.”
I started nervously when a log suddenly dropped in the hearth. At the same moment, I heard the lusty cries of Celia and Charles's three-month-old son,
“I didn't think to ask George why he chose that way to reach the murder scene,” said Samuel, by way of another pitiful explanation.
Of course, it was no less than the truth, I told myself, as far as it went. The fact that George had arrived at the bridge in one of the police wagons—then walked to our house to wake my brother—was, if only by omission, the lie. Really, I thought, guarding Samuel's covert life was becoming far too complicated!
“Perhaps there were no cabs handy at such an early hour,” my brother finished lamely.
The firelight reflected in Papa's eyes, streaking them with darting shafts of flame, and making his usual jovial face appear sinister. He studied Samuel for a long, uncomfortable moment, then turned his gaze on me. I shifted in my chair, but said nothing which might thrust us any deeper into this hole we'd dug for ourselves.
When it became clear that neither of us was prepared to add to this woefully weak fabrication, Papa shook his head and sighed.
“Evidently I was mistaken when I assumed the two of you had matured beyond the age of ten. Don't think I'm too old or addled not to recognize when my own children are having me on. And it would be a mistake to assume that I won't eventually get to the bottom of this, because I promise you I will.”
He continued to regard us over the rim of his coffee cup as he drained the dark liquid. This time, when he poured fresh brew from the silver pot, he added rather more brandy to his cup than he had previously. Stirring the hot liquid, he once again turned to my brother.
“Although you hardly deserve it, I have good news for you, Samuel. I was speaking this afternoon to Arthur Cunningham, of Cunningham and Brill Attorneys, and he said his firm would be pleased to take you on as an associate when you have passed your state bar examinations.” His eyes narrowed. “You are planning totake the exams in early February, are you not, son? I believe you indicated as much the last time we had this conversation.”
I watched my brother's Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed hard. “I, ah, actually, I haven't signed up to take them yet.” At our father's tightening expression, he quickly added, “But of course I will—first thing tomorrow.”
“See that you do,” Papa told him sternly. “You have put off taking this last step for entirely too long. You could do a good deal worse than to accept Arthur Cunningham's generous offer. It's all well and good that you've been working part-time as a paralegal for—” He looked at Samuel questioningly. “What's the name of that lawyer friend of yours? I'm always forgetting it.”
“Andrew Wayburn,” Samuel answered a bit feebly.
My brother and I exchanged a quick glance. I was one of the few people who knew that Samuel's paralegal work for Andy Wayburn was more fiction than fact, a handy way to account for the income he actually brought in as a crime reporter. In truth, Andy had inherited a comfortable nest egg upon his father's death, and had engaged in little real legal work since passing his own bar examinations. As one of my brother's old school friends, he was happy to let Samuel use his name in order to explain his mysterious livelihood.
“You know, it's strange that I've never met Mr. Wayburn,” Papa said, giving him a curious look. “You'd think that after all my years on the bench, I would have run into the man at least once.”
“Actually, Andrew handles mostly wills and probate,” Samuel told him. “He spends little actual time in court.”
“I see,” said Papa, although I wasn't sure if he truly accepted this explanation. “Nevertheless, it's time you join a more established law firm. At Cunningham and Brill you'll be able to experience all aspects of a distinguished practice from the ground floor up.”
I started nervously when a log suddenly dropped in the hearth. At the same moment, I heard the lusty cries of Celia and Charles's three-month-old son,
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