Embroidered Truths (21 page)

Betsy had been taking notes. Now she asked, “How sure are you that what you’re telling me is really what happened?”

“Well, it’s a funny thing, but some of the research done into that little problem of Mr. Kedge’s”—she raised an eyebrow—“I did myself. Now I am willing to admit I don’t understand what John was getting at myself. And neither does his little Russian secretary, who typed up the thirty-page memo on it. But John did—and so did Mr. Kedge.”

“And David Shaker didn’t.”

“That’s right—or that’s what I understand. David won’t lose his position over this. He’s a partner, after all. And he’s damn useful to Hanson Wellborn. But he hates John’s guts for showing him up like that, especially in front of a client. Well, that is, he hated John’s guts. And he had some kind of confrontation with him the day before John died.”

Nineteen

BETSY looked back at all the information she’d gotten from Susan and said, “I would like to know if you’d do me a really big favor.”

“You want me to poke around and see what else I can learn,” said Susan promptly.

The offer took Betsy’s breath away. She hadn’t dared ask so great a favor. On the other hand, she grabbed it quickly now that it was offered. “But if it will get you in trouble—” she began.

“Oh, I’m in pretty deep already. In fact, I updated my resumé a few weeks ago and put it into circulation. I’m not cut out for corporate law. I’m going to try for the county prosecutor’s office. Failing that, public defender. Or maybe I’ll get out of law entirely. It’s a heartbreaker of a profession.”

“With your attitude and nose for information, you’d be great in any kind of investigative business, newspaper reporting, maybe, or private investigations,” said Betsy. “Or anything you’d care to turn your hand to.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am,” said Susan—Betsy understood by now that “ma’am” was just a kind of nickname Susan used. Like men used to say “pal.” “Meanwhile, I’ll be your mole.”

“Keep track of your hours,” said Betsy. “I can pay you for this.”

“I ought to say, no, thank you, I’ll do it for the love of it—but thank you. Because if they catch me, I’ll be out on my ear with no references, and I’ve got a child to support.” They negotiated a bit, and finally agreed on an hourly fee that both could live with.

“Now,” said Betsy, “I’ll ask another favor that, I hope, is less difficult.”

“Name it.”

“Can I meet David Shaker? Even just for a minute?”

“I think I can arrange that.” She stood. “Come on, follow me.”

She led Betsy up one corridor and down another, finally stopping at a door like many, of red-brown wood, with a name printed in black on an ivory board that slid into a holder—a reminder, perhaps, that while the door was to last, the occupant of the office might not.

They went in, to find a lovely little outer office furnished in deep green leather and richly grained oak. The secretary behind her desk was a well-groomed fiftyish woman of slender build and a cool, competent gaze.

“Hi, Stormy,” said Susan. Betsy blinked in surprise. Stormy? People who name their babies ought to realize that one day they’ll be middle-aged. This sedate, middle-aged Stormy seemed more like clear and mild.

“H’lo, Ms. Lavery,” said Stormy. “Have you brought a client to see Mr. Shaker?”

“Not exactly. This is Ms. Devonshire, who is working for Mr. Marvin Lebowski. She has a couple of questions for Mr. Shaker, if he has a minute.”

Stormy did not so much as raise a speculative eyebrow as she rose from her chair. “I’ll just see, all right?” She opened the door to an inner office, and came back less than a minute later to say, “Will you step this way?”

Betsy could not have said beforehand what she expected to see in David Shaker—but she was surprised to see the tall, slim young man with dark hair, blue eyes, and sensitive features. He put out a large, thin hand to greet her, and she took it, noting how warm and firm it was. “Ms. Devonshire?” he said, peering deep into her eyes. “Do I know you?”

“No, sir. I’m Godwin DuLac’s employer, and I’m working with Marvin Lebowski on his defense.”

His hand abruptly released hers. “I see. And you think I might be of help in your quest?” His tone indicated grave doubt.

“I’m interested in the character of John Nye. You probably saw a great deal of him at work, and I’d like your opinion.”

He smiled. “Certainly. He was an excellent attorney, his knowledge of the law was comprehensive, and he had a subtle intelligence that left many of us in the dust.” He gestured, elbows in, hands wide with palms up, helpless against such an intellect. “His death leaves Hanson Wellborn much the poorer.”

“Did you consider him a friend?”

He took a breath to reply, then his eye was caught by something behind Betsy—Susan Lavery. For the merest instant his nostrils were pinched white and his brows lowered, then he was all sweetness again. “I suppose not,” he said, speaking slowly. “He kept to himself a great deal—I suppose now because he was gay, and didn’t want anyone to get too near for fear they might ask about his family or something.”

“You didn’t know?”

“No.” He shrugged. “It just never occurred to me. It should have, I suppose, no picture of the wife and kiddies on his desk, his never coming to the annual picnic given for families. But you know how it is, hindsight is always twenty-twenty.”

“Was there anyone here at the company who’d quarreled with him recently?”

“You mean a really serious quarrel? No. I had words with him a day or two before he was killed, but ask around, you’ll find I have words with just about everyone, sooner or later.” He smiled, a very boyish and charming smile.

“Well, that’s all I can think of for now. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He extended his hand again. Betsy took it and was surprised to find it chilly and damp.

Outside in the hall again, Betsy said, “Now there’s an interesting personality.”

“Did you catch his glance of death at me?”

“Yes, I did. Is he going to come around to shout at you?”

“Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But before the week is out, yes.” She frowned. “Or maybe not. He doesn’t want to become a suspect in a murder case.”

“Too late,” said Betsy, and Susan laughed.

“Anything else I can do before you head out?”

“Could I meet Mr. Kedge?”

“You plunge right in and fly high,” said Susan, mixing metaphors in her surprise. “But all right, let’s see if we can get a minute of the old man’s time.”

They went into a fancier district of the company, where doors were farther apart and of a better grade of wood, and the carpet in the hallway more plush. Mr. Kedge’s private secretary was frankly beautiful, her black suit costly, the solitaire diamond on her hand at least a carat and a half in size.

“Hello, Karen,” said Susan. “This is Ms. Betsy Devonshire, who is looking into the death of John Nye for Marvin Lebowski. She would like just to meet Mr. Kedge, if that would be possible.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. He’s with Mr. D’Agnosto. Though, if she could wait for just a few minutes, I think they’re almost finished.”

“I can wait,” said Betsy. She turned to Susan. “But I’ve kept you from your work long enough. Thank you so much, you’ve been a great help to me.”

“You’re most entirely welcome. I’ll call you this evening, all right?”

“Yes, thanks.”

With a wave of her long-fingered hand, Susan left. Betsy looked around and chose a settee with what looked like antique brocade upholstery. She opened her notebook and went back over what she’d written in haste, making the writing less scribbly, occasionally putting the next of a consecutive series of numbers beside a sentence or phrase, then going to a blank page and expanding on the note.

She finished quickly, then looked up to see Karen looking at her speculatively. “Who is Mr. D’Agnosto, one of the partners here?”

“Yes, he’s our signatory officer, among other things.”

“What’s a signatory officer?”

“He handles certain accounts. Money coming in that will be going out again, for example.”

Betsy thought a moment. “You mean, when someone sues, the money isn’t paid directly to the client, but goes through here.”

“Yes, that’s approximately correct.”

“Does Mr. D’Agnosto also function as an attorney?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That’s interesting, that you have attorneys doing corporate functions as well as, er, lawyerly things.”

“Is it? These are people who specialize in corporate law. They are very likely to understand better what they are doing, and how to do it legally, than someone with no legal training.”

“Yes, of course. What does Mr. D’Agnosto specialize in as an attorney?”

“He handles the malpractice suits.”

“You mean the Children’s Hospital and St. Luke’s?”

Karen raised an eyebrow, a little surprised at the depth of Betsy’s knowledge about the firm. “Yes, that’s right.”

The door opened then, and two men appeared. One stayed just inside the office; he was a short man with thick, curly white hair and a three-piece suit that fit him so well it must have been custom-made. The other was about medium height, his hair almost as white, but with a hint of tan in it—he’d been a redhead when young, thought Betsy. He had the heavily-freckled and weather-beaten complexion of a fair-skinned sailor, and the deep creases around his light eyes indicated many hours of squinting against sun reflecting on water.

Karen had risen when the door opened. The sailor looked at her and she looked at Betsy and then at the short man.

The two men looked at Betsy. “This is Ms. Devonshire,” said Karen. “She would like just a moment of your time, Mr. Kedge. She’s working for Mr. Lebowski, investigating the circumstances of John Nye’s murder.”

“Really,” said the short man, frowning at her.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” said the sailor. “Are you Mr. Lebowski’s partner in his office?”

“No, sir, I’m actually acting on behalf of Godwin DuLac, who has been charged with Mr. Nye’s murder. Mr. Lebowski has been kind enough to give me official status at present, as an investigator.”

“Have you a license as a private investigator?” demanded the sailor.

“No, sir. But I have helped the police in other cases. I would do this in any case, because Godwin is a dear friend and I absolutely know he did not murder Mr. Nye.”

The sailor made a faint snorting sound, turned, and shook the short man’s hand. “Well, I’m off to a meeting with Doctor Knopf. I think we can settle this before it goes to trial.”

“Good luck,” said the other. They all waited until Mr. D’Agnosto left, and then the short man came toward Betsy.

“What did you want to see me about?”

“I’m looking to talk to anyone who can tell me something about Mr. Nye,” she said. “I’d met him through Godwin, but didn’t really know him.”

“Here, come into my office,” he said quickly, then looked at his watch. “I can give you perhaps five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

His office was not palatial, but it was on a corner, and had two windows. He sat her in a comfortable club chair then hurried behind his desk as if anxious to put something substantial between himself and her.

Betsy said, “Did you know before this happened that John was gay?”

“Well . . . yes. It didn’t interfere with his work, and he was not obvious about it, but it wasn’t something generally known, and I preferred it be kept that way. So this happening was rather a blow. We have a number of very conservative clients and it’s been an interesting process soothing them down.”

“Why should they—” Betsy started, then shut up. It was impossible to direct peoples’ feelings and prejudices, and arguing with them about it never helped.

Mr. Kedge smiled and nodded at her, reading her mind. “John was a very valuable member of Hanson, Wellborn, and Smith,” he said. “He’ll be sorely missed.”

“I understand he came up with a solution recently to a golden parachute problem you were having. A particularly clever solution.”

His brow lifted in surprise. “You’ve done your homework, Ms. Devonshire.”

“Don’t ask me any questions about the solution, and you’ll not be disappointed in my homework.”

He laughed, a very pleasant sound.

“On the other hand,” continued Betsy, “I also understand there is a partner who was not pleased that Mr. Nye showed him up with the cleverness of the solution.”

That killed the laugh dead on the spot. “What?”

“I understand that Mr. Shaker was very angry at Mr. Nye.”

“Oh, that! Well, David is a valuable member, too. It’s just that his talents lie in another plane than John’s.”

“So you didn’t think he was right to be embarrassed about his failure to grasp the implications of John’s work?”

“Oh, he could be embarrassed all he liked. David has a very high opinion of himself, and it’s good for him to be taken down a peg or two now and then. John was going to become a partner within six months or so, and then they’d have the same status, and David could stop being uncomfortable about being pecked by someone he didn’t think was his equal.” Mr. Kedge’s tone was dismissive of the whole matter.

“I’ve heard that one of Mr. Shaker’s responsibilities was to ‘light a fire’ under employees when that was felt necessary, and that he wasn’t one of the more popular partners because of that.”

Mr. Kedge bit his upper lip and stared at Betsy—a very intimidating stare, which she returned as calmly as she could. He nodded once, and said, “Yes, that’s true. He has a heck of a mouth on him, and he enjoys applying the lash when it’s needed. Since this is a pleasure not everyone appreciates, we sometimes use him as a surrogate. But”—he pointed a stubby forefinger at her—“David could also be a sweet man. There’s many a time he’d lay into someone one day and take the same person to lunch the next.”

“Yes? A pity he didn’t get a chance to make up with John.”