Coffee & Crime (6 page)

They looked at me like I speaking Spanish at a Chinese convention.

The room spun, my heart pounded in my ears, and I struggled to catch my breath. I rushed outside and gulped in the cold air. The rain soaked through my cotton shirt but I couldn't move. Nausea rolled over me. I hadn't had a panic attack since I was a kid but this one made up for lost time. Bending at the waist, I forced myself to take slow deep breaths. If I could slow my pounding heart, the nausea would stop and it would be over.

Zelda crouched next to me. Eyes big and worried. "Scotti? What's wrong with you? What happened?"

I panted. "Panic attack."

Zelda patted my back, which didn't help. "Why? Did it finally hit you that George is dead? I know it's hard to take in but getting all freaked out isn't going to change anything."

"No, it's not that." I started to cry. "I think I killed George."

Monday morning I fidgeted in my seat at the loan officer's desk. Feeling a lot less certain of my options than I'd been when I walked into the bank. Mr. Avayan, my loan officer perused the documents with knitted eyebrows and jockeyed between the papers and his computer keyboard. The sounds he made weren't encouraging and I wondered if he'd forgotten I was sitting in front of him.

Finally, he looked up and feigned a smile. "All right then, Mrs. Fitzgerald."

"It's Miss Fitzgerald. I'm not married."

"Of course," he said. "Miss Fitzgerald." He looked away and stacked the documents, butted them into a neat pile and cleared his throat. "Okay then. Yes. We have what we need." He stood, reached across the desk, and put out his hand. "Thank you."

I stood and shook his hand. "So, that's it?"

"Yes."

"When will I know if I'm getting the loan?"

Avayan's eye wandered to visitor chairs where other bank customers waited anxiously. He looked back to me. "Within thirty days."

I cringed. "Thirty days?" I only had five weeks to get the money. And the added threat of another buyer made me more anxious. "Really? Is there any way to speed things up?"

Avayan fiddled with the knot in his tie.

"Do you think I'll get the loan?"

His eyes slid away from mine again. The universal sign for, not a chance in Hell.

"But I have sixty thousand dollars here. In this bank. Plus I have an IRA and the restaurant is collateral." My voice hit that pitch that only dogs like but I wasn't going to let him blow me off without a fight.

Avayan forced a tight smile. "Yes, you have." His bushy eyebrows did a little dance above his eyes. "And First National appreciates your business very much."

"But?"

Realizing I wasn’t going to give up, Avayan sighed and explained. "The loan you're requesting is for a down payment on the business. According to the terms of your agreement, you intend to pay off the balance from the business receipts over the course of five years."

I shrugged. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing is wrong with it. In my opinion the agreement is quite generous. But if you are promising the future receipts to pay off the balance of the purchase price
—
plus interest
—
the bank can't use the business as security for a loan. You have no equity in the business that can be collateralized."

"But what about the sixty thousand?"

He raised an eyebrow. "The sixty thousand you intend to use as part of the down payment?"

I gathered my things. "So then there's no point in putting the paperwork through? I wasted my time and yours?"

Avayan shrugged. "There's always a chance."

"And that's all I have is a chance? As in a slim to none?"

He smoothed his suit jacket and fiddled with his tie again. You do have an impressive business plan
—
carefully thought out, aggressive but realistic. Plenty of experience and understanding of the industry. That's clear..."

"But?"

He hunched a narrow shoulder. "These are tough economic times, Miss Fitzgerald
—
for everyone. I wouldn't want to foster false hope."

If I'd had more self-respect, I'd have told him to go to hell and marched out with my head held high. Instead, I hung onto the shreds of hope he offered, thanked him for his time, and walked out to my car.

Fighting the urge to weep, I got into my car, and headed for downtown L.A. If traffic was in my favor and the rain didn't start again, I'd make it to George's lawyer's office with a few minutes to spare.

<<>>

Lloyd Sessions, Esquire had an office on Figueroa Street in downtown Los Angeles. Which was a nightmare to navigate and people avoided it like the plague. Naturally, I couldn't find any parking nearby, so I parked in a public lot three blocks from Sessions' building. Under other circumstances it might have been a pleasant walk. The air felt fresh and clean and there were plenty of shops along the way that could satisfy the urge to window shop. But I was late, power walking in heels and wished to hell I'd brought Zelda with me. My stomach growled because I’d passed on breakfast and only grabbed a large coffee to go on my way to the bank.

By the time I stood in front of Sessions' secretary, I was out of breath and in no mood for the mild reprimand she issued for being late. "I'm sorry," I said breathlessly. "Traffic." I shrugged and gave her a sunny smile. "But I'm here now."

Once she was satisfied she'd humiliated me enough, the old battleaxe ushered me into Sessions' private office. Impressive is the only word to describe it
—
antiques, original artwork, and even the air smelled of money. But I guess you can't work for the wealthy without a little of it rubbing off on you.

Lloyd Sessions was one of those dignified lawyers that made you think of English butlers in mystery novels. The word proper fit him to a tee. He wore an expensive pinstriped gray suit that I guessed was custom made. His hand felt soft and pampered when I shook it. And the leather of the visitor chair I sat in was as smooth as a baby's bottom.

"Sorry I'm late," I said and smiled.

He nodded and cleared his throat.

I pulled my battered leather briefcase into my lap and reached inside for the agreement with George.

Sessions raised a hand and said, "That won't be necessary." He consulted a file on his desk. His lips moving as he read through it. Finally he looked up. "I presume your wish is to have the family honor the agreement?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Have you spoken to Mrs. Manston or any other members of the family?"

"No, I thought it best to contact you."

"And, you wish me to contact the family regarding this matter?"

I nodded again.

He picked up a beautiful black fountain pen, uncapped it, and poised it above a legal pad. "And what is the name of your attorney?"

I cringed. "I don't have an attorney."

His pale blue eyes looked up from the legal pad and regarded me with surprise. "No attorney?"

"Do I need one?" I waved a hand at his desk. "You have the agreement. I'm assuming you recognize George's signature. And I'm also assuming you drew up the contract that we were going to sign, as well."

Sessions favored me with a brief smile. "The reason I asked if you have an attorney Miss Fitzgerald, is that the estate is in probate."

I shrugged and held up my hands. "Which means what, exactly?"

He smiled indulgently, as though speaking to a child. "Meaning that your agreement with Mr. Manston is now a claim against the estate."

I bit my lip. "Does that mean that you can't go to the family?"

Sessions lay his fountain pen down on the desk gently. "My point, Miss Fitzgerald, is that your agreement was not with the family, but with Mr. Manston." He raised a hesitant finger. "Also, they may wish to dispute your claim."

I sighed. "I'm shit out of luck?"

Sessions chuckled in spite of himself. "Not necessarily. But you have to understand that when a person of Mr. Manston's financial status passes away, all manner of claims are made. And often it takes a very long time for these issues to resolve."

"Meaning, there's nothing you can do for me?" I stood, knowing the answer to my question but not wanting to appear rude.

"You're certainly free to make your claim. Although, I'd advise strongly that you retain an attorney to work in your behalf. The process can be daunting for a lay person."

I reached across the desk and shook his hand briefly. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Sessions."

"Not at all. I wish I could have been more helpful." He looked sincere and I believed him. I nodded, gathered my things, and turned to leave. "And off the record..." I turned back toward him and raised a hopeful eyebrow. "I'm sorry your plans weren't realized. I know that Mr. Manston felt great enthusiasm for your ideas and wanted to contribute to your success."

It was a nice thing to say and something he didn't have to tell me. "Thank you, I appreciate that."

"Perhaps if you gave it a little time, you might be able to approach Mrs. Manston personally? She may entertain the idea of carrying on where George left off?"

I tilted my head and studied him
—
trying to read between the lines. Was he trying to help me or just being nice? "But you said that the estate was in probate."

Sessions shrugged. "If Mrs. Manston chose to champion her husband's cause, it wouldn't be a matter for the estate."

I left Sessions' office slightly more hopeful than I had the bank. If I'd read the lawyer's clues properly he believed that Maggie Manston would honor the agreement
—
if I approached her in the right way.

The question was what was the right way?

After the dinner rush ended, Manny announced he had plans and walked out the back door. His departure was punctuated with the growl of his Trans Am as he pulled out of the lot. He shot out onto Foothill and buzzed by in a blur of fire engine red kicking up a trough of water in his wake.

I shivered involuntarily. "I'll never get used to that sound."

Zelda smirked. "Well, you know what they say. The louder the lion roars, the smaller his balls."

"Speaking of cars, when do you get yours back?"

Zelda glanced through the window. "Any time now. Ted promised he'd bring it by after dinner."

I peeked in the kitchen from the pass-through and saw Chewie the cook was in his usual spot by the door
—
smoking and talking on his cell phone. I stepped back to the counter, pulled my laptop out of its bag, and set it down.

Zelda drifted over and eyed the computer. "What are you doing?"

I grabbed a cup of coffee, sat down and fired up the laptop. "Research."

After I left Sessions' office, I decided to do an Internet search on Maggie Manston. If what Sessions said was true, my best chance was to find out everything I could about her.

Zelda stood behind me and stared at the screen. "What kind of research?"

I typed in Maggie's name and got back thousands of search results. "I told you what Sessions said."

Zelda scoffed and plopped into the seat next to me. "You think you're going to find Maggie Manston's soft underbelly on the Internet?"

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying."

"I don't need your negative vibes."

"The woman is a bitch."

I stopped typing and shot Zelda a wilting glance. "I'm kind of out of options here. My best shot is finding some common ground that we can bond over. Unless you have a better idea?"

Zelda rolled her eyes and made her monkey face then looked at the computer screen. "Okay. Fine. What have you got?"

I scanned the list of results and clicked on several links. There were the usual power wife profiles that covered the trials and tribulations of being married to a formidable and famous attorney. As well as mentions of various charities she championed. She supported the L.A. Philharmonic, the L.A. Ballet company, and had plans to start a scholarship program for local art students.

A few of the articles mentioned Lauren Manston, George and Maggie's daughter, who was pursuing an acting career. The girl certainly had the looks to be a movie star
—
cascading blonde hair, soulful eyes, and perfect bone structure. The camera definitely loved her and I could imagine 40-foot billboards adorned with her image.

"Oh yeah, you've got lots of common ground
—
art, ballet, classical music."

"Shut up." I continued clicking through the search results. "There has to be something." But if there was, I couldn't find it.

"Why are you so convinced of that?"

I pushed the laptop away and stretched. "You think the lawyer made that up? Why?"

Zelda got up and refilled our coffee mugs. "Because everybody lies.” She put the pot back on the burner then slouched against the counter. "Don't you ever learn?"

I poured cream into my coffee until it was the right color, then took a sip. "Everyone can't be liars."