A Wrongful Death (6 page)

Seated at her desk with the formal letter before her, she brooded about the offer. She might not be free to go, she thought sourly, and she was not at all certain she even wanted to teach, and doubted that she would be a suitable instructor in the first place. But neither was she eager to resume her own practice. She felt as if she were existing in a state of indefinite limbo, waiting for decisions to come from above. "Later," she muttered, putting the letter aside.

The next letter concerned new management at her apartment complex and an increase in rent. Three increases in three years, with no end in sight, and no recourse for the tenants. How much was she willing to pay in order to keep a location that was so convenient for her river walks?

She looked at the door in relief when there was a tap and Maria entered at her invitation. "Mrs. Sarah Kurtz is on the phone," Maria said. "She wants to come in this morning. She said it was about the woman who was attacked, and you'd know what she meant."

"Tell her sure," Barbara said. "About ten?"

Sarah Kurtz was accompanied by her son Terry. She introduced herself and him. She was dressed in a long black coat with a velvet collar, and a black velvet hat. Her son helped her off with the coat, then put it on a chair. He took off a black leather jacket and tossed it down, also. He was one of the most handsome men Barbara had ever seen, almost too good looking to be real and not signed up to a movie studio or a model agency. Tall and athletic, a nice tan, deep blue eyes, even the classic cleft chin. Although his mother was also tall, she was forty or even fifty pounds overweight, a fact that a simple gray dress with long sleeves did nothing to disguise. She wore a single strand of pearls, and had small gold studs in her ears. Her hands were shapely with long slender fingers, surprising on such a large woman, and she wore only a single ring with a diamond. What little hair showed from under her hat was blond. Everything about her was discreet and in excellent taste, Barbara thought.

Terry Kurtz held his mother's chair as she seated herself, then waited by the second client chair until Barbara was seated before he sat down.

"What can I do for you?" Barbara asked.

"Ms. Holloway, I want to retain you to handle a very delicate matter for my family" Sarah Kurtz said.

Barbara shook her head. "I'm afraid I'm not free to represent any new clients at this time. You told my receptionist you wanted to discuss an incident where I happened to be on the scene. I'm sorry she didn't realize you wanted to retain me, or she would have informed you accordingly."

Sarah's lips tightened slightly and she said, "Am I to assume that Elizabeth has already retained you? That I might represent a conflict of interest?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kurtz, but I will neither confirm nor deny any assumption you might make. I'm sure your firm already has an abundance of attorneys you are free to consult. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Hold on," Terry Kurtz said. "Look, Ms. Holloway, we're desperate to find Elizabeth and my son. And we don't want any publicity. None. When she gets in touch with you, please tell her I have to know my boy is all right, that he's safe. And tell her I demand the right to see my son. Our divorce agreement gave me visitation rights, and she can't refuse to let me have access to him."

Sarah Kurtz was sitting straight upright, as if ready to get to her feet. "Ms. Holloway, I don't know what story she told you. No doubt a pack of lies. Now hear the truth of the matter. She trapped my son, pursued him relentlessly, that cheap Spanish dancer. As soon as she got what she wanted from the union, the assurance of a child, she abandoned Terry and brought her lesbian lover into their apartment. And now she's engaged in some kind of illegal activity that has put my grandchild in mortal danger. We handled the affair very quietly some years ago. It was too ugly to take public, and she benefited handsomely from her settlement. Blackmail is a more appropriate word for it. It will not be so civil this time, I can assure you." She stood up and Terry jumped up from his chair and retrieved her coat, then held it for her.

Sarah Kurtz started to walk toward the door, then stopped and regarded Barbara. "Yes, I have resources, Ms. Holloway, and I won't hesitate to use them. Tell Elizabeth I fully intend to gain custody of my grandchild and ensure that he has a decent upbringing, a decent home. If she resists, I shall crush her in the process, and anyone who comes to her aid, as well. Good day."

Terry reached the door before she did and held it open for her to pass through. Without another glance at Barbara, they left.

An hour later Maria tapped again, and this time she said, "Terry Kurtz is on the line, Barbara. Do you want to speak with him?"

Barbara spread her hands in a what-the-hell gesture. "Why not? Put him on."

She picked up her own phone a second later when Maria buzzed. "Holloway," she said.

He sounded hesitant when he said, "Ms. Holloway, I apologize for this morning. Would it be possible to see you again? Alone? Just me this time?"

"I doubt I can be of any more help than I was earlier," she said coolly.

"I'd like to talk to you about what happened with Elizabeth," he said. "This morning wasn't the right time, I'm afraid."

She said, "Sure, come along," and he said fifteen minutes.

Although when he arrived this time his manners were as impeccable as before, he looked more like a college boy dreading a confrontation with a wrathful mentor than a self-assured man of the world. He fidgeted in his chair and looked past her at the wall as he said, "I'm afraid my mother is a little off her rocker these days. My dad had heart surgery last month, and he lingered in intensive care for weeks before he passed away. It was tough on my mother, and then for Elizabeth to take off without a word just added to her misery. She keeps going on that Jason and I are all she has left. Grandfather, her father, is nearly ninety, and she knows he could go any day, any hour. She's pretty upset."

Barbara did not say a word. Then, after a moment, Terry said, "Norris called the house about the attack, and we all thought it had to be Elizabeth and Jason. She knew about the cabin. We went there once, she and I. She knew where the key was and could get in. We all assumed that it was her, and when he said you were in the nearby cabin and you had found her, Mother got it in her head that Elizabeth must have met you there. Why else would you both suddenly be at the same isolated place like that? I don't know what she thinks you had to consult about, but there it is, what she believes."

He stopped studying the wall behind her and looked directly at her then. "How badly was she hurt?"

She told him what she had told everyone else. "I don't know that it was Elizabeth Kurtz. I don't know who she is."

"Didn't she say anything at all? Didn't the boy?"

She shook her head. "All he said was, 'Mama's hurt.' Not another word."

"She didn't see who attacked her?"

"Mr. Kurtz, I've told you everything I can about it. She was unconscious, or semiconscious at the best. I didn't try to question her."

He got up and began to walk about the office aimlessly. Turned away from her he said, "It must be wrenching, Ms. Holloway, how a man feels when his wife leaves him for another man, I guess, but it's a lot worse when she leaves for a woman. Funny thing is, I care about her. She didn't pursue me. We were both pursuers and pursued. One month together, then married. I thought it was one of those made in heaven marriages, perfect playmates, perfect lovers. Then I heard her talking on the phone to Leonora and I knew. But, I'd take her back tomorrow. I'd beg her to come back and try again. And I want my son nearby, where I can see him, watch him grow, take him to the ball game, or play ball with him.

Read to him."

He returned to her desk, leaned on it, and looked directly at her. "I don't care what she's done, or what she's mixed up in.

I want her back. When you see her, or hear from her, will you tell her that? I want her back desperately." He reached into his pocket and brought out a little notebook, jotted something in it and put the torn out page on her desk. "That's where we'll be for the coming weeks, Mother and I. It's the house Dad grew up in, left to him when his mother died four years ago. He kept putting off coming here to go through things, but Mother decided it was past time. I'll be helping her. Tell Elizabeth I'll meet her wherever she says, and I won't tell Mother a thing about it. If we can just meet, talk things over. That's all I'm asking."

Barbara did not touch the note he had dropped on her desk. She stood up and after a moment he turned, picked up his leather jacket and put it on.

She walked to the door with him, where he said, without looking at her, "I know you won't tell me anything else, but give her the message. That's all, just give her my message."

She opened the door, and he added, "Thanks for seeing me."

"And that's how it was," she said to Frank in his study later, after telling him about her visitors. She had left the office early, tired of mail that she was reluctant to answer, or unable to answer yet. Now fog was moving in, thick and penetratingly cold. "I spent a couple of hours on the Internet and learned more about prosthetics than I cared to know." She had been filled with revulsion to learn that the per capita number of amputations during the Iraq War far exceeded the average for past wars. Somehow, the fact that more of the wounded survived, due to better medical care, airlifts from battle zones to hospitals, failed to alleviate the horror of thinking of all those young people missing arms, legs, hands. The Diedricks Corporation profits were at an all-time high.

"The founder," she continued, "Henry Diedricks, was a true innovator apparently, a genius. He'd been an orthopedic surgeon, gave up his practice and began to make better prosthetics. And the rest, as they say, is history."

Frank nodded. He had spent a good deal of time researching the company, also. Now Diedricks was eighty-eight or eighty-nine, blinded and left partly paralyzed in a single-engine plane crash — his plane, which he had been piloting. The company innovations had slowed precipitously with his injuries thirteen years before, with only a few more developed and patented since then.

"Any word from Bailey yet?" Barbara asked, gazing at the fog-shrouded garden moodily.

"He had to get some associates to do some digging in New York," Frank said. "He'll come around on Friday morning. Apparently Elizabeth Kurtz lives, or lived in New York City, and why she ended up in that cabin is anyone's guess at this point. I think we can assume the woman was Elizabeth Kurtz."

"Well, everyone else does, we might as well go along with it," she said. "They all also assume that we met there by design with some ulterior motive."

"Well, keep in mind that the crime was against her, not committed by her, and until and unless she lodges a complaint, as far as the police are concerned there's little they can do regardless of what kind of pressure the family exerts."

"It depends on what's in the divorce decree, doesn't it? A visitation clause, an agreement not to leave the area without prior notification or even permission. They could still press for a kidnapping charge."

The fog was getting denser even as she watched; bushes and trees were taking on a ghost-like appearance. She shivered. "I'd better be on my way while I can still see the streets."

"Your old room's available, dinner's coming up." She shook her head. "Thanks, but I still have some mail to clear up. See you Friday morning." Minutes later, as she drove through town, Christmas lights here and there were taking on an ethereal appearance, like an aurora dance, forming, blue, gold, pink, then fading, forming, fading. Christmas, she thought, almost in surprise. She kept forgetting that in little more than two weeks it would be Christmas, and she had not even thought of shopping yet.

Chapter 7

By Thursday Barbara could not keep up the pretense of accomplishing anything, and her conscience overcame her reason when she heard Shelley outlining her day to Maria. No office appointments. She would be in court until noon at least, then Martin's and, if there was time, she had a little more shopping to do.

"I'll take Martin's today," Barbara said. "You have enough on your plate."

Shelley tried but failed to hide her relief. Neither she nor Maria had asked Barbara anything since her return, and if they had noticed how little she was doing, that went unremarked, also.

"It's really okay," Shelley said. "I mean, things have been slow at Martin's these days. You know, Christmas coming, people have other things on their minds."

"Fine. So I'll surf the Internet and gab with Martin. Go on to court."

Martin's restaurant was decorated lavishly for Christmas with lights, tiny star-studded trees on the tables, special candles in pretty little red and green holders. It smelled good with pastries in the oven already, and the fragrance of fresh pine. Martin and Binnie were delighted to see her, and Martin wanted to ply her with a special wine, which she refused. "If I start drinking this early in the day, where will it lead?" He laughed his booming laugh and poured her coffee instead.

"You're putting on weight," she said, eyeing him narrowly. "You're turning into a big black bear stuffed for hibernation."

"Binnie's fault. Her pastries. I'm giving them up after the holidays." Binnie laughed silently, a laugh that seemed to illuminate her face. She was mute, but her expressions were eloquent; she could hide little of what she felt.

"And here comes your customer," Martin said then, and he and Binnie went into the kitchen to resume prepping for the dinner crowd later.

It was slow that day, with only two clients. At three o'clock, Barbara closed her computer and stretched. She really should go do some shopping, she was thinking, when the bell over the door rang again and a man and woman entered together.

"Ms. Holloway?" he asked. "Are we too late to talk to you?"

"Nope. Have a seat." She waved at the chairs at her table. The woman was thin, dark and intense looking, with sharp features, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, a denim jacket, no jewelry or makeup. Her hands were red and chapped looking. She took off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. She looked young, mid- to late twenties. He was at least six feet, with scant pale hair, black-framed eyeglasses, a heavy multicolored sweater and black jeans. He wore a wedding ring. She guessed him to be early forties, but his thinning hair could have made him look older than he was.