Tips for Living(54)
“I guess so,” I said, exasperated. My jeans weren’t what I wanted to focus on.
“Did the police take anything else?”
“A Chinese food receipt they found in the pocket.”
“Do you remember the date on it, perchance?”
“From the same night.”
Gubbins scowled and made another note.
“That confirms the jeans were laundered close to the time of the murders, which looks suspicious. They’re going to test the jeans for evidence that could place you at the crime scene. Soil type, carpet fibers, etc. Washing doesn’t fully eliminate all substances. Blood, for instance. Blood is very hard to eradicate completely.”
I suddenly saw grisly flesh on blood-soaked sheets. I felt bile rise in my throat.
Gubbins paused, pushed his glasses further up his nose and gave me the stink eye this time. “As your lawyer, and this is important, Nora, I need to know exactly what I’ll be dealing with. I can’t help you if there are surprises. Are they going to find anything?”
My heart began pounding. What if I was at Pequod Point that night? If I had some kind of soil on my jeans they could trace to that area . . .
“Jesus. What do you think? Of course not. Absolutely not.”
The way he stared at me while tapping his pen on the table had me worried. The fake smile that followed increased my suspicion: he didn’t believe me. Did he think I might have killed them?
“All right then,” he said, opening the brown leather folder in front of him. He pulled out my contract. “Now for the retainer. With this new development, discovering what triggered the search warrant will require more time . . . What if we start with say, fifteen thousand dollars, and see how far it takes us?”
I waited for him to say he was joking.
“Nora?”
“Would you consider letting me pay in installments?”
It was almost 9:45 p.m. I’d come downstairs to use the PC in the Courier office, peeking through the door glass first to make sure Ben wasn’t working late. On top of everything, his rejection still stung. My eyes watered from the strain of reading in the dark. I’d kept the lights off. I didn’t want any of the Piqued who saw me as the murder suspect ogling through the window.
Doing research on the current value of Hugh’s drawings felt mercenary, but I needed to be practical. The numbers on the Artworldprices.com database were encouraging; one of the drawings had sold for $33,000 last month. Granted, the sketches in the Loving Nora book were small, but now they were part of the Hugh Walker legend, and the scandal would only increase their worth. I heard that happened with Carl Andre’s work. His story was legendary in the art world.
The infamous sculptor had been acquitted of killing his wife back in 1988. He claimed she was opening the oversize window in their apartment when she lost her balance and fell thirty-four floors. Andre was built like a bull. His wife weighed ninety-three pounds. When the police arrived, he had fresh scratches on his nose. Scratches. He was found innocent despite the incriminating marks.
Even with a discount for a quick sale, the money from selling Hugh’s sketches should take care of my legal bills and Aunt Lada’s expenses, plus some. The cash could save us both.
I logged off Artworldprices.com. The caffeine high had petered out, and my energy was flagging. I shut the computer, laid my head down on the desk and closed my eyes. Just for a moment, I thought. The smells of pencil shavings and furniture polish invoked kindergarten naps. I must’ve dropped off.
A faint rattling in the rear office woke me. It sounded like someone jiggling the handle on the building’s back door. Or jimmying it, attempting to break in. My first thought: the rock thrower. Was that cowardly bastard back? Or was it a thief after our office computers? Then the black van flashed through my mind.
I heard the creak of the door opening and I bolted, lurching in the dark toward Ben’s desk. The bat. Where was his baseball bat? I knelt down and groped. My hand found the smooth wooden knob. I grabbed it and jumped up. Gripping the neck with both hands, heart racing, I lifted the bat high over my shoulder as the lights popped on. Ben stood in the doorway of the back office, still wearing his coat, with his hand on the light switch. As our eyes met, his face flushed. Mine burned. I must be beet red.
“Nora? What the hell . . . ?”
Embarrassed, I lowered the bat.
“I thought . . . I thought you were a robber. Or the rock thrower, breaking in to smash up the office. I didn’t hear your motorcycle.”
“I got my car back this morning. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone.” He pointed to the Pequod Liquor box by my left foot. “I came for my wine. I bought a case to have around for the holidays and keep forgetting to take it home.” He checked his watch. “What are you doing here this time of night?”
“I was checking my e-mail. The police took my computer. And my phone.”
“Right.” Ben looked at his shoes. “I heard.”
Long silence. I wanted to crawl under the desk. Being around Ben felt even more awkward than I feared. Should I say something? Suggest that we forget the kissing incident? Chalk it up to the heightened drama of the day? I leaned the bat against the wall.
“Well, it’s late. I suppose I’ll be on my way.” I squirmed. My nervousness had me sounding so phony.
Ben raised both palms, beseeching.