An Arm and a Leg (12 page)

“Hey it’s me,” Mel said after the beep. “What’s up? Your stuff’s gone from the bunkhouse and I haven’t seen you since you brought the car back. Call me.”

Mulling over what Larry’s prolonged absence might mean, Mel went to the bathroom, relieved himself, and got dressed in his work coveralls. He picked up his work boots and sat back down on the edge of his bed. From inside one boot he withdrew two soiled and sweat-stiffened socks, which he slid onto feet so dirty they looked like rusted blocks of iron.

With the soles of his boots alternately either sticking to the linoleum floor or crunching on and pulverizing something, he headed toward the coffee pot. He punched the button to start the brew, and tried Larry’s phone again. This time when Larry didn’t answer, Mel was ready with what he wanted to say.

“What the hell’s going on with you? Ever since you started watching that O’Neil bitch you’ve been different. You’d better call me or I’m going to tell Bellamy you’ve taken up with her.”

No sooner did he end the call than he had second thoughts about his message. What if it wound up doing the opposite of what he’d intended? What if it just pissed Larry off?

Poor judgment—that was Mel’s problem. At least that’s what his grandma used to say. She said he was born without whatever it was that made people think before they did things. And she ought to know, since she was the one who raised him.

Grandma had sure enough taught him the ways of the world—he owed her that. If she told him once, she’d told him a thousand times that the world was made up of two kinds of people: those who got hurt, and those who did the hurting. It was the way of things, pure and simple.

He ran his fingers over a lumpy patch of small circular scars on his right forearm as the memory of Grandma’s final life lesson slid into his mind. He’d since dubbed the day as Judgment Day—even had the date tattooed on his left ass-cheek.

As usual on lesson day, Grandma had held the red, smoking tip of her cigarette against Mel’s arm and waited for him to scream. But this time he hadn’t uttered a sound. This time he just stared right back into her eyes without even so much as a blink. Her eyes had opened into huge round saucers, and her jaw dropped as he plucked the burning thing from her fingers and ground it out against her wrinkled, brown-spotted cheek.

But he especially enjoyed remembering the sounds she’d made as he wrapped his hands around her boney neck and squeezed. Squeaky, gagging sounds that made him feel like he could do anything he wanted. Like he could rule the world. He’d never known a person’s eyes could bug out so far—except in cartoons, or like one of those rubber doll things with eyes that shot out when you squeezed it.

Even though her face was dark purple by the time he finally threw her against the wall, he guessed she must have survived, because the police hadn’t come looking for him.

Mel knew he wasn’t real bright. But Larry sure was. He was smart as a whip. And he was the only one in the world who’d ever treated Mel okay—who’d ever seemed to understand him.

Oh, Larry had ragged on him good and proper when he smashed everything in O’Neil’s place just for the hell of it. And he’d sure enough been pissed when Mel shot that hunter guy he’d thought was Tim. But he got over it, just like he always got over Mel’s mistakes.

Larry even forgave him for getting even with the dog that chewed on him. He didn’t speak to Mel for several days after that, except to say the dog didn’t mean it personal, that he just did what he was trained to do. But he’d finally come around.

And now all Larry could think about was that O’Neil woman. Her with that thick, shiny hair and tiny feet. She wasn’t hardly big enough to be full grown. But Larry was in heat with a capital H, and it was like the years of their friendship never happened. It was like Larry said before that witchy woman put a spell on him: she was the real problem.

The seeds of a familiar black emotion started up in Mel’s stomach. It shot roots throughout his solar plexus, the pulse of it threatening to choke him.

Chapter Fifteen

Frankie called the office of Tim’s attorney, the name and number of whom she’d found inside the front cover of the Trust notebook. She spoke to an assistant and set up an appointment for later that afternoon to go over details regarding her brother’s will. Maybe the attorney would have some answers as to what had been troubling Tim.

The drive to Flatte’s office took her through Nob Hill, past downtown, and into Old Town Albuquerque. As if traveling backwards in a time machine, she drove past upscale modernized storefronts and condos, dry cleaners and automotive shops, and into the hundred-year-old square of adobe shops and eateries.

The air in the square was redolent with the aromas of baked breads and tortillas fresh off the griddle. She inhaled the subtle bouquet of beef, chicken and pork simmered in red or green chile. Though she’d already eaten, her mouth watered as the fragrances pricked at her tongue.

A hand-carved wooden sign, crafted to match the building’s adobe architecture, announced the offices of Flatte and Flatte, Attorneys at Law. The well maintained xeriscaped grounds boasted a variety of moss rock and indigenous plants geared toward water conservation. A small sign positioned next to a paved driveway discreetly invited visitors to park in the rear.

She did as the sign suggested, then made her way through the front door and to the front desk. She identified herself to the young receptionist, who in turn pointed to several heavy, carved wood chairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table, and disappeared down a hallway. Frankie took a seat.

Whoever decorated the waiting area must have been the director of a museum or mausoleum in a former life. Heavy, dark wood furnishings sat beneath a collection of original watercolor and oil paintings, their weighty, Baroque frames suspended from silk ropes. An overabundance of native pottery and sculptures rested in glassed-in enclosures atop woven wool rugs. The coffee table boasted a huge silk flower arrangement, so tall and wide Frankie had to crane her neck to see around it. Heavy-handed use of cinnamon aerosol thickened the atmosphere. No whispered offer of aid to the litigious public here—the décor virtually screamed old school credibility and worthiness. By the time the receptionist returned, lethargy had set in and Frankie was in near-snooze mode.

“Miss O’Neil?” The young woman spoke in hushed tones through barely parted lips, as if she’d received her receptionist training from the same undertakers’ university as the decorator. She motioned for Frankie to accompany her through an arched doorway and into a spacious office.

A man in his mid to late forties stood from behind an antique oak desk, pushed back his custom fitted, ergonomically perfect chair, extended his hand, and moved toward Frankie.

The man stood at somewhere around six foot-three. His carefully styled, sandy-colored hair flourished above a broad forehead. An artful and precisely symmetrical salting of gray adorned the sides. His tan face offered a sun splashed backdrop against which to display his unnaturally colored eyes, something between lapis and violet. And his face bore a carefully calibrated smile of pure plastic.

The attorney’s office attire consisted of lizard skin cowboy boots, designer jeans, and a yellow Polo shirt. He wore a turquoise and silver bolo tie, the style and rich patina of which proclaimed it to be from the 1950s, give or take. A brown tweed jacket, complete with twin leather elbow patches, had been carefully folded over the arm of an overstuffed leather chair in one corner.

“Good afternoon Miss O’Neil, I’m Jeremy Flatte.”

Frankie shook the proffered hand, and the attorney waved her toward a wood Mission style chair strategically placed in front of his desk. He reclaimed his seat.

“What intriguing choice of eye color.” Flatte placed his elbows on the desk and leaned forward, positioning his manicured hands to best display his diamond-studded horseshoe ring. “But doesn’t it mess with your head to see the world through one blue and one yellow contact?”

“I don’t wear contacts. It’s all DNA. Just weird genetics.”

“I see.” The attorney’s smirk said he wasn’t going to fall for that story. “Well, they certainly make for an interesting look.”

Frankie’s eyes slid upward from Flatte’s face to the framed certificates and licenses arranged on the wall behind his desk. That the attorney had earned a doctorate in Jurisprudence from Pepperdine University answered her unspoken question as to why Tim would have hired him. But how had he paid the man’s undoubtedly astronomical bills?

“For the most part, Tim left everything he owned to you, with the exception of a couple of small bequests. If you have any questions, I’m at your disposal.” The attorney paused, an inquisitive look on his face.

Frankie glanced around the office. “I’m concerned about your fees. Tim only recently graduated from medical school and his student loans are enormous. I’m pretty sure whatever funds are in his bank account will not be enough to continue covering your services.”

The attorney rubbed the palms of his hands together. “I don’t know anything about Tim’s level of debt, but all my fees have been paid in full. My records indicate he always paid within a week of receiving my invoices.”

Frankie’s eyebrows rose as if by their own volition. “Sorry?” Her voice cracked like a twelve-year-old boy fighting puberty.

The attorney’s eyebrows defined a quid pro quo arch at Frankie’s surprise. “I said my fees have been paid. You’ll want to get copies of your brother’s bank records for a full picture of his finances.”

Flatte bared his teeth again in what he seemed to think of as a rapport-building smile. He opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a file about a quarter of an inch thick, and pushed it across the desk. He spent the next several minutes explaining the nature of Tim’s will and of Frankie’s role as executrix.

“I hope I’m not out of line, but I’m curious about something. Did your brother strike you as being worried about anything?”

“What makes you ask?”

“He seemed uneasy the whole time he was in my office. I don’t know how else to describe it, other than to say he acted like a man trying to put his house in order. It’s almost as if he knew something was going to happen to him. Then when I read about his, um, his accident, it just seemed kind of ironic.”

When Frankie didn’t respond immediately, Flatte glanced at his diamond-encrusted watch, pushed his chair back and stood. “Sorry, but I have another appointment.” He walked to his office door, opened it, and looked expectantly toward Frankie.

“What do I—”

“Call after you’ve looked over Tim’s financial records. I’m sure you’ll have a better picture of things by then.”

Frankie did a slow walk back to her vehicle. She’d hoped the attorney might have been able to at least give her a hint regarding what had been going on with her brother. Instead, she was coming away with even more questions.

She spent the rest of the day at her church office, where she made some calls and did some paperwork then stuck her head into Pastor Dan’s office to give him an update on her situation.

“This is the first vacation you’ve taken in three years,” Pastor Dan said. “You’ve got a few days still coming. As long as music for the services is covered, do what you have to do.”

After thanking her boss, she tossed a goodbye at the church secretary and headed for the parking lot.

As she neared her car, a flash of blue caught at the corner of her eye. She whipped her head around in time to see the Camaro speeding directly at her. With only a split second in which to react, she threw herself onto the hood of her vehicle. Frantically, she curled her fingers over the metal lip behind which lay the windshield wipers and held on tight against the impact she felt certain was to come.

But none did. The driver gunned the engine and sped past, barely missing Frankie’s flailing legs. He pulled out of the parking lot and burned rubber into the street.

But this time he’d made a mistake. This time Frankie had clearly seen his face.

She slid off the hood to land legs planted wide, her weight on the balls of her feet in fighting posture. Heat pulsed in her blood and pain shot up both arms as her fingernails ground into her palms. She stared at the rear of the receding vehicle, her eyes straining to read the license number that was all but obliterated by mud. Whoever this guy was, he was no longer satisfied with merely following her.

Forewarned is forearmed.
As if on cue, Uncle Mike’s voice sounded in her ear.

“So speaketh the dead sage.” Frankie instantly regretted her tone, even if it was only aimed at the aural memory of her uncle. “Sorry, but if you’re going to keep hanging around, at least make yourself useful and warn me
before
something bad happens.”

Instead of heading home, she drove to a hardware store. She purchased two lengths of steel pipe that would fit into metal brackets at the sides of her front and back doors, thereby rendering them nearly impervious to break in, two high intensity motion activated lights, a motion activated digitized recording of a large barking dog, a police issue taser gun, and three king sized containers of Man Down pepper spray.

While standing at the checkout counter, she pulled the packaging off one can of pepper spray and put it into her purse. She carried her purchases to the Volvo, opened a second package of pepper spray and put it into her glove compartment.

Once home, Frankie spent a couple of hours installing the Katy bars and setting up the motion activated barking dog. She’d have to wait until the next day to install the spot lights, but at least she’d made progress. And forewarned was definitely forearmed.

“Bring it, ass wipe.”

Now if she could gin up the confidence those words implied.

Chapter Sixteen

Next day Frankie installed the spotlights. She attached one to the header above her front door, the other above her back door. If she’d done everything correctly, they’d light up the whole freaking block anytime someone came within a hundred feet of her place.

After she set up the barking dog sound machine, she set it off several times until she was pleased with the volume. Even though she knew it was only a recording, the deep-throated
woof
interspersed with growls made her upper lip break out in a reassuring cold sweat.