Please Ring Bell and Take a Seat.
Together with an antique brass bell and an arrangement of wilted flowers, the sign in the Huxham law firm’s foyer sat atop a table in the center of the room. Sloane reached for the bell but drew her hand back when Charles’s voice, loud and angry, came from an office on the right. She snuck beside it and listened.
“You said Friday. And that’s when I’ll have it,” he bellowed.
She peeked in. Charles was sitting on the corner of his desk. His hand on his head, pulling his hair back. “I told you I can’t give it to you. The painting isn’t mine.” He held out the phone, stared at it, and slammed it on the desk. “Damnit.”
Not speaking to a client, Sloane thought, and crept back to the table. She rang the bell and sat. Charles stepped out of his office, unrolling the sleeves of his sky-blue button-down shirt. “I’m late. Are we still on?” Sloane asked, standing.
He checked his watch. “It’s all right. I’ve been busy with paperwork. Let’s get this finished.”
They walked toward his office, and Sloane stopped. “Beautiful portraits. You, Harold, and who are the other two?”
Charles pointed to the opposite wall. “That’s my great-grandfather next to Harold. His father started the firm in 1898.” Then he pointed at the painting next to his. “And this is my grandfather. Five generations. All lawyers.”
Sloane stared at the door across the lobby. “Harold’s office?”
“Yes.” Charles coughed and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He stood at the entrance to his office. “Have a seat, Ms. West.”
The office was a dump with piles of journals and papers everywhere, take-out containers stacked on a cabinet behind his desk, and a rotting floral arrangement on a conference table. Its stagnant water mixed with stale cigarette smoke in the air.
She tossed her tote onto a burgundy rug next to a chair at Charles’s desk and sat while he searched through files in the cabinet. His phone lit up with a call. It was on silent mode, and the call went to voice mail.
Charles pulled out a file, closed the drawer, and sat in a leather chair behind his desk. He pointed at a box placed in the chair next to her. “Harold gathered together a few of your grandparents’ things. Mostly old legal work, but there are a few pictures there.”
“That was nice of him. I knew right away he was a quality person.”
Charles cleared his throat. He stacked the scattered papers on his desk to one side. “I trust you found the paperwork is in order and where you needed to sign clearly marked?”
Sloane recognized the sleepless nights in his slumped shoulders and dark circles under his eyes. Was it grief? Guilt? Both? She took a manila envelope out of her tote. “Yeah. I haven’t had a chance to open this yet.”
The muscles in his jaw tensed, and he opened his file. “No problem. I’ll walk you through the papers.”
“This is beautiful.” She picked up a miniature cloisonné scabbard and ran her finger along the threads of gold. “Does it have a sword inside?”
Charles put on reading glasses. “It’s a letter opener from one of those cheap import stores in Chinatown. Now, if you’d turn to page three.”
“All right, boss. No chit-chat, huh? What am I looking at on page three?”
“The Wests’ financials. Harold transferred each asset into a trust for Jane. You probated Jane’s will in New York, and I filed the trust and updated it in your name. All the necessary banking information is at the bottom of the page. We—I need you to sign on the highlighted lines.”
Sloane skimmed the page. “It’s a crapload of money. And Jane’s Degas. I had no idea.”
“Yes. I’m sure you feel like you’ve won the lottery.”
She signed and dropped the pen. “It’s not a damn thing like it. The only family I had and the family I just discovered are dead. How’s that lucky?”
He looked up. “You’re asking me that?”
“What’s your problem with me, Charles?”
He peered over his reading glasses. “I don’t have a problem with you.”
“Then why don’t you want me here?” She shoved the paperwork across the desk.
“I didn’t think you should have come to Denwick. But now that you are here, I could care less.”
“I mean here, here.” She spread out her arms. “Alive.”
He took off his readers and tossed them on the desk. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” Sloane paused. “If I had never been born, your uncle would still be alive, and you wouldn’t be grieving for him. If Liam Morris had killed me, too, I’m guessing you’d be a much wealthier man.”
He glowered at her as he pushed back in his chair and got to his feet. “I need to make a copy for your file.” He stomped across the lobby’s green marble tile, and Sloane grabbed his phone. “No password? That’s just asking for trouble,” she whispered and accessed his recent calls. The last two numbers appeared several times a day, going back weeks. She got her phone and took a picture of the screen. Then she dialed his voicemail. Charles’s returning footsteps sounded in the lobby. She hung up and replaced the phone, wishing she knew how to do the temporal spell.
“Take this,” he said, positioning the file near her. “That’s your copy.” He also held a large item draped in black cloth.
Sloane put the folder in her tote, and when she turned back, he’d revealed Jane’s Degas. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” She got to her feet and stood in front of the painting. Three ballet dancers twirled with long elegant arms stretched out to each other, white tulle skirts flowing. Their movements blurred into a circle against a blue-green garden and sky.
“It’s an original pastel, a small fortune as you now know,” Charles said.
“It’s stunning,” Sloane whispered. “I’ve only seen reproductions of his work, except at the MET.”
“My uncle helped Natty and Mary acquire it at auction.”
Sloane looked at him. “Harold said it was Jane’s sixteenth birthday present.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. He shared a little bit about Denwick. About his friends. You.”
A flush spread across his face. “Did he instruct you to change the painting’s insurance policy into your name?”
Sloane turned back to the painting. “We didn’t get that far.”
Charles coughed into a handkerchief until he was red in the face. A vein in his neck bulged. “I’ll have to keep the painting here until you secure insurance. The insurer’s contact information is in the folder.”
Sloane stared between the Degas and Charles. “No, problem. I’ll change the policy tomorrow. Do I need to settle the Wests’ legal account with you?”
“Not yet. I’ll figure billable hours and have an invoice delivered to you. I assume you’re leaving in a day or two.”
Sloane crossed her legs. “Why? In a hurry to see me leave?”
“Like I said, I don’t have an opinion one way or the other.” He turned and filed his copy of the Wests’ estate.
“What will you do with the law firm now? Run it by yourself?”
Charles slammed the file drawer and turned to her. “I will absolutely keep it going. If anything, to honor my uncle.”
“Is there another Huxham lawyer in the family, or does the legacy end with you?”
His muscular cheeks tensed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I just thought it would be a shame if, after four generations, it all ended with you.”
“Nothing’s ending.”
“So the firm’s doing okay, financially?”
“That’s none of your business.” His voice had become angry, and his composure slipped.
Sloane decided to push him a little more. “Harold also told me the four family friends hold their property on Old Main in common. You read the Wests’ wills. You’re aware they designated their friends contingency beneficiaries for their Old Main holdings. Did Harold leave this property to you?”
Charles sat as if she had shoved him down on the chair. He stared at her, open-mouthed.
“You understand how it looks, don’t you? Harold dead. An attempt on my life.”
“Are you accusing me of something?” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Then he lit a smoke and took a long drag. “You have no idea what my uncle’s will says.”
“Not yet. And I’m not alleging anything. Someone from Denwick hired Liam Morris to kill Harold and me. And I’m here to find out who.”
He exhaled. “You think my uncle’s murder was planned?”
“And the attempt on my life.” Sloane leaned toward him. “We know it was.”
Charles held up his hands. They trembled, sending up a plume of zigzagging smoke. “I don’t understand. You were there. You stopped the maniac that shot him. I didn’t have anything to do with that. I loved my uncle.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want Harold dead?”
“No. Everyone loved him. My God, the very few times he lost a case, his clients sent him flowers.”
“What about you, Mr. Huxham? Does anyone want you dead?”
“Me? No. I’m just a small-town lawyer. Who would want to hurt me?”
She observed him, waiting for his tell, but the smoke must have calmed his nerves.
“You might be surprised how easy it is to drive people to murder,” she said. “If Harold left the land to you, who is your beneficiary?”
Charles took another long drag and stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray. “I need to get back to work. So if we’re done.”
“I have a few more questions. Can you give me a few more minutes?”
“Actually, I can’t. I’m busy.”
“I just wanted to know when Harold told you about me?”
“He didn’t have to. I helped him search for Jane for years. After she died, you were easy to find.”
“Really? Did either of you tell anyone else in Denwick about me?”
“I didn’t. But Harold spread the news on Old Main like a paperboy. Told anyone who would listen that he’d found you.” He pointed a pen at her. “He could’ve called you. And done your business online. But he had to prove something. That’s a side he didn’t show anyone but me. He was stubborn. Rigid. He kept secrets. Hell, he hid a big one from everyone here for decades.”
The bell in the foyer rang, and he jumped to his feet. “I’m done answering your questions. You need to leave.”
Sloane made a mental note to follow up on Harold’s alleged decades’ old secret.
“Charlie, are you here?” a voice called out. It was Lore Reed. Charles hurried to the door as she waltzed into the office holding an armful of flowers, blocking Sloane’s view of her face.
“Good morning, love. I’m changing out the flowers and watering your plants today. No more brushing me off. Look at your office. It’s filthy. What would Harold think about this mess?” She shifted the flowers to her hip. “Oh, my! Jane’s Degas. And you’ve been smoking? Next to her painting? For God’s sake, Charlie.”
“This isn’t a good time, Emilie. You should’ve called first.” Charles’s voice was abrupt and harsh.
“I did. I left a message. What’s wrenched your ginch?”
“I think I did,” Sloane said.
Lore moved the blooms to her other hip, struggling to see around them. “Oh, hello, Sloane. I’m so sorry. I thought your meeting would be finished by now. Are you getting on okay? Please, let me know if you need anything. It really is my pleasure to help.”
“Thanks. But I’ve got more help than I need from my neighbor.”
Lore laughed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make light. I know Dotty can be a force of nature. But, even so, settling your grandparents’ affairs right after your mother’s? I mean, my God. If I can help in any way.”
“For God’s sake, Emilie, she said no thanks. Go put your flowers on the conference table.”
“I said I was sorry for interrupting. Stop snapping at me, Charlie.” Lore sat the flowers on the table. “I’ll just wait out in the lobby.”
“Don’t do that, Lore. Charles and I are finished.” Sloane swung her tote over her shoulder, picked up the box, and turned to him. “I’ll call the insurance company tomorrow. And whenever your bill is ready, let me know. I’ll swing by and pay it.”
* * *
Sloane sat on a wrought iron bench under a Garry oak, staring at the businesses down the block. Charles had lied and not very well. But she needed more than dishonesty to build her case for Jacobson.
It was time to call Mike Garcia, one of her contacts at the NYPD. They’d met when she graduated from the Academy. He stayed loyal to her through the incidents, investigations, and suspension, and his loyalty remained after she left the force.
She pressed his number. “Hey, Garcia.”
“There she is. I knew you couldn’t stay away for too long.”
“Listen, I don’t want to wear out my welcome—”
“But…Just kidding. I always got your back.”
“Thanks. How are you?”
“I’m good. And you? How’s Canada, eh?”
“Yeah. Nobody really talks like that.” She laughed. “So Jacobson and Thomas are loud-mouthing my business, huh?”
“They broadcasted your shit over the radio.”
“Great. Just like old times.”
“That’s about right. Jacobson also said you’re thinking about joining again when you get back.”
“Are you kidding me?” Sloane’s voice grew testy. “Listen, I’m never working in the force again.”
“Ahright. Don’t get pissed at me. I’m just saying that’s the rumor. Anyways, I heard you went up there on the Morris case?”
“Yeah. I have some leads.”
“What do you need from me?”
“A drink at Stella’s would be great.”
“I’m always good for that, too. As soon as you’re back in the city.” He spoke in a hushed voice. “What do you need for your case?”
“Some record checks. I’ll text you a list of names and a picture of two phone numbers. I need you to run them. Give me the usual.”
“No problem.”
“Today if possible. I owe you big time.”
“I know that’s right. The second round is on you.”
“You got it. Wait. One more thing. Can you tell Chen I’m going to need some financials?”
“Ahright. Talk to you later.”
Sloane leaned back and a sudden urge for pub food and more answers came over her.
The Spotted Owl was warm inside and smelled of deep fry, and without a room full of guests, the Gaelic instrumental was loud. Rose Keane stood behind the bar in a white button-down shirt and blue jeans. “Hey there, are you here to take me up on my offer?” she asked as Sloane approached.
“How could I resist?”
Rose’s full lips turned up, and she tucked a few loose auburn curls under a head wrap. “Chef brewed more coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Yeah, sure. Black.”
“Coming right up.” Rose moved to the back wall, where two coffee urns had begun to sputter and steam, mixing the aromas of fresh brew and Chef’s lunch preparations. She placed two cups of coffee on the bar. “I’ve been thinking about where to begin your foray into Canadian cuisine. And I decided Quebec with poutine.”
“What’s poo-teen?”
“Your mom never made it for you?”
“No. Jane preferred bodega cuisine.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever the corner stores had cooked up that day.”
Rose guffawed out loud. The accidental laugh stole Sloane’s breath. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
Sloane stared into her coffee cup. Rose mistook her reaction. “Don’t apologize. Jane’s meals were weird but a convenient way to raise a child, I suppose.”
“I don’t know about weird. Sounds fun to me. Every night a surprise, just like your first poutine. Which, by the way, you are going to love.”
“Hmm. It’s been a long time since I let food or anything else blindside me.”
Rose tossed a menu in front of her and stood with her hands on her hips “You can check it out for yourself if you don’t trust me.”
Sloane held up her hands. “I’m good. I’ll trust you.”
Rose grinned and placed a silverware wrap in front of Sloane. “Smart move. You won’t regret it.” She winked and disappeared in back.
Sloane wiped the sweat off the nape of her neck. She hadn’t taken part in electric banter like this since the early days with Jess. Waiting for Rose to return, she studied the photos behind the bar. They spoke of history and deep roots. Five generations of Keanes standing in the spot Rose had been, and hanging right in the center of the photos was the Keane family tartan. Same as in the photos. Not much in the pub had changed.
“Chef’s making you his poutine special.”
Sloane jerked. “Jesus. I didn’t hear you come back.”
“You need to relax. Get a massage. Spend the day outdoors. It would do you good.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Sloane stretched and nodded at the wall. “I was admiring your family.”
Rose turned and looked at the photos. “Five generations. But I’m sure my dad told you that.”
“Yeah. He said your family was one of the original settlers.”
“We are. Are you becoming interested in our little village?”
“I guess so.”
“I think that’s great. It’s good to know your roots.”
“Maybe you can help me?”
Rose leaned closer and grinned cheekily. “What do you need?”
Her question was an open invitation to take their banter up a notch, but Sloane just wasn’t ready to play. She pointed at a photo of four young men. It was the same one Lore had shown her. “I thought I’d start with the Four Musketeers.”
“You know the name?”
“Yeah. Lore told me.”
“This is my grandpa, Ray Keane, he’s with Harold Huxham, James Reed, and Nathaniel West, and yes, they called themselves the Musketeers. Rumor is that our four families go back to when my great-great-grandfather built the inn. Well, except for the Huxhams. They came later.”
“Did the Musketeers always get along?”
“I think so. I remember them meeting here a few nights a week until my grandparents retired to Scotland.”
“The other three stopped coming?”
“Not right away. They met up once or twice a month for years. But then Alice, Mrs. Reed, died. After that, they hardly came in at all.”
“That seems strange. You’d think James would need his friends even more, right?”
Rose stretched closer as if she needed to whisper. “All I know is Harold and James had a falling out.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure.” Rose looked toward the kitchen. “And Charlie isn’t welcome at the pub anymore.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Let me go check on your lunch.”
Sloane dug out her phone and checked for an email from Garcia, eager to know as much as possible about Charles Huxham.
Rose returned with a steaming plate. “Here you go. It’s hot. Be careful.”
Sloane chuckled when Rose slid the lunch in front of her. “French fries?”
“That’s right. Poutine.”
Sloane inhaled. “Smells good. What’s the catch? They’re covered in—”
“A simple brown gravy.”
“Okay, topped with green onion and…what’s this?”
“Cheese curd,” said Rose. “C’mon. Don’t analyze it, just take a bite.”
“Curds? The squeaky stuff?”
“Yes. And these are fresh. You’ll love them.”
Sloane speared a forkful of fries dripping with sauce and cheese. “Here we go.” She shoved them into her mouth, and gravy dribbled down her chin.
Rose slowly wiped the gravy from Sloane’s chin with a napkin and waited for Sloane to swallow. “What do you think?”
“About the fries?” She couldn’t help but flirt while the feel of Rose’s touch lingered. “They’re delicious. But I can’t eat all this alone? Here, you help me.” She slid the plate over to her.
“No, thanks. Chef made me a huge breakfast.” She watched Sloane take another bite. “Okay, I’ll have one.” She grabbed a fork.
“I thought Lore and Charles were a couple when I saw them in New York,” Sloane said.
“Lore went there with Charles?” Rose picked her fork through the gravy, piling up cheese curd.
“You seem surprised?”
“A bit.” Rose looked up. “I didn’t think Lore liked Harold all that much. Or maybe it was the other way around.”
“Why?”
“Just a feeling I got whenever they were in the same room.”
Sloane watched, fascinated, as Rose ate forkful after forkful.
“Okay, I can’t eat another bite.” Rose stepped back.
“And you were right. It was delicious.” Sloane wiped her mouth on the napkin. “You seem to like it, too.”
“I have a healthy appetite.” Rose looked at the entry. Light filtered in from the staircase, and voices followed.
Sloane stared at her profile. “Do you have a warning system, or is hearing your superpower?”
Rose shrugged. “Can’t say. You’d know my secret if I told you.”
“Guess I’ll just have to find out.” Sloane stepped down from the barstool. “Thanks for the poutine and the info.” She pulled out a couple of bills. “How much do I owe you?”
“Keep it. And I’ll let you pay for our dinner next time.”
“All right. Dinner’s on me.”
“I’d like that. Just let me know when.” Rose tucked a few menus under her arm and walked away.
Sloane picked up her tote and the box and ascended the staircase to Old Main, wondering why after two years of swearing off dating, did she agree to dinner plans with Rose Keane?