Head Over Heels (6 page)

A moment later he stopped in front of a door that read
NEIL PEAVY
,
ATTORNEY AT LAW
, and shook himself off like a wet dog. He dried his hand against a protected section of the black T-shirt he wore under his plaid shirt, then reached for the handle.

A soft bell pinged overhead when he pushed the door open, and a young woman looked up from behind the counter. She gave him a practiced smile. “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”

Coop crossed plush charcoal carpeting to the curved mauve and gray reception counter. “My name is Cooper Blackstock,” he said. “I'd like to see Mr. Peavy.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But if he doesn't have time to see me today, perhaps I could make one.”

She picked up a telephone receiver and paused with her finger poised over the intercom button. “May I tell him what this is in regards to, Mr. Blackstock?”

“I'd rather take that up with him, if you don't mind.”

Her professional smile didn't falter and, giving him a nod, she depressed the button beneath her finger. “Mr. Peavy,” she said a moment later. “There's a Mr.
Blackstock here to see you. Yes, sir, Cooper Blackstock.” She listened for a moment, then said, “No, sir. He doesn't have an ap—Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Very good, sir.”

She reseated the receiver and looked up at Coop. “He has a conference call scheduled with a client in a moment, but if you don't mind waiting, he said he could give you part of his lunch hour.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Coop flopped down on an uncomfortable gray upholstered Eames-style chair and picked up the first magazine that came to hand. He flipped through its pages without absorbing much more than a vague impression that half its content seem to feature rich recipes while the other half was devoted to dieting tips.

“Mr. Blackstock?”

He looked up to see the receptionist extending a clipboard over the counter.

“I need to get some billing information, please.”

He got up and filled out the form. Taking a seat once again, he picked up another periodical.

This one turned out to be an older issue of
Time
magazine, and he found an article that sparked an idea in his mind. It kept him absorbed until a door to the side of the counter opened and the receptionist stuck her head out. “Mr. Peavy will see you now.”

Coop made a note of the magazine's date and issue number and rose to follow her into the heart of the office suite.

She stopped in front of a closed door down the hall a moment later and gave it a quiet tap. They were invited in by a male voice. The receptionist opened the door, then stood back for Coop to enter. She pulled it
closed as soon as he'd passed through, and a man who looked to be in his early forties rose from behind an oak desk to greet him.

“Mr. Blackstock, I'm Neil Peavy.” His brown hair was receding, but he looked fit beneath his expensively cut suit and had the subtly pampered sheen of a man who takes care of himself. Leaning across the desk, he extended an immaculately manicured hand. They shook, then Peavy waved a hand at the chair that faced his desk. “Please. Sit down.” He resumed his own seat. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

Coop took the seat indicated and met the lawyer's gaze. “You can give me some information about Eddie Chapman's case.”

The man's face closed down. “What are you, a reporter? If so, you should know better than to ask me to divulge privileged communications.” He rose to his feet. “Now, if that's all…”

Coop stretched his feet out in front of him, casually crossed one ankle over the other, and settled more firmly in his seat. “I'm not a reporter, Mr. Peavy. I'm—”
Nothing I'm about to just blurt out without a few safeguards in place
. He fished his checkbook out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Look. Let me write you a retainer.”

Peavy's eyebrows drew together. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I'm looking for the same confidentiality you claim for Chapman. I need the assurance that what we discuss here will be privileged.”

Coop could see the lawyer was torn, but as he'd hoped, Peavy's curiosity won out. He gave a clipped nod. “All right.”

“Will five hundred cover it?”

When the attorney agreed it would, Coop wrote out the check, ripped it out of the checkbook, and offered it to Peavy.

Neil Peavy set it down on the gleaming desk in front of him, then leaned his weight on his hands and looked at Coop. “Okay, what's this all about?”

“Eddie Chapman is my brother.”

Anger sparked in the lawyer's eyes. “I don't know what your game is, Mr. Blackstock, but I think you'd better leave. Eddie Chapman is an only child.”

“My half-brother, I should have said.” Coop shrugged without apology for the miscommunication. He and Eddie might have had only sporadic contact over the course of their lives, but they'd always considered themselves brothers—and never mind the legal qualifications. “Eddie's the only child of Thomas Chapman, but before Chapman came into her life our mother was married to Dave Blackstock.”

Neil slowly resumed his seat. “All right. I'll accept that. But I'm still not certain what it is you want from me. The lawyer-client confidentiality still applies—I can't discuss what he said to me.”

“I already know Eddie's innocent,” Coop said. “So I have no need to ask if he admitted any wrongdoing to you. I'm merely trying to figure out what caused him to take off.”

“I wish I knew.” Neil spread his fingers against his desktop and studied his buffed nails. Then he looked up at Coop. “The case against him wasn't all that compelling. He was pursuing custody of his daughter through the legal system and had a very decent shot at attaining it, so in spite of what the DA's office implied,
that particular battle was no motive. Eddie and Crystal had a public fight at the Tonk the night of her murder, but they'd had arguments before. The only trace evidence in this case came from his leather jacket, not from him, and he had a habit of forgetting it everywhere he went, so
anyone
could have been wearing it. Hell, he even left it here once. There wasn't a lick of DNA to tie him to the crime, and no one witnessed him with the deceased after they left the bar, let alone saw him wrap his hands around her throat and strangle her.” A vein began to thump in Neil's temple and a flush suffused his face, and shooting Coop an apologetic look, he waved a dismissive hand.

“I'm sorry. This gets me hot under the collar every time I think about it. The DA's evidence was circumstantial, and we had a good chance at an acquittal. Eddie was out on bail and doing okay, but when the judge determined there was probable cause for a trial, he ran. Nothing suggests guilt to law enforcement agencies or prospective jurors quite so fast as that does.”

“He must have panicked.” Coop straightened in his seat. “Can you think of any reason he might have done that?”

The lawyer shook his head. “No, I'm sorry. I don't have a clue. If he'd just sat tight, everything probably would've been over by now.”

“Well, one way or the other I plan to find out what's going on,” Coop said and climbed to his feet.

Neil rose, too, and offered his hand. “I wish you luck,” he said as they shook. “And if you learn anything, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know.”

“I'll do that. And if you think of anything else that
might help shed light on this, I'm at the Tonk most nights.” Coop smiled crookedly at the attorney's raised eyebrow. “As the bartender and manager, not a patron.”

Neil's return smile was avuncular. “That's good to hear. I must make it a point to drop by for a beer some night.” He picked Coop's check up off the polished surface of his desk and held it out. “Here. We didn't spend enough time to justify this.”

“Bill me for the time I was here and put the rest on account,” Coop said. “I'll probably have other questions for you, and I was serious about wanting what we discuss to be privileged. The fewer people who know about my relationship to Eddie, the better chance there is that the real killer will screw up or someone will let something slip.”

Neil shrugged as if he had his doubts, but set the check back on the desktop anyway. “All right.” He escorted Coop to the door.

The rain was letting up a little when Coop let himself out of the building a few moments later. His visit hadn't turned out to be as informative as he had hoped, but it was a start. He'd just have to keep digging.

Because perseverance counted. And sooner or later, something was bound to shake loose.

V
ERONICA FINISHED THE LAST OF THE SKETCHES SHE
was doing on spec for a prospective client and added them to the letter and estimate she'd put together earlier. She slid everything into an addressed manila envelope, sealed it up, and set it aside to take to the post office the next time she went out.

She stopped in the archway to the living room a moment later and stared at the jumble of gold, gold, and more gold that covered every horizontal surface. It was a good thing the day had turned rainy, she thought wryly, because she'd probably go blind if a stray ray of sunshine ever found its way in here. She shook her head, wondering how on earth two sisters could have such disparate tastes and wondering just where to begin the process of clearing all this stuff out.

She'd already removed Crystal's ticky-tackies from her bedroom, and her reasons for wanting to purge the rest of the house were threefold. First and foremost, her minimalist soul hated the garish clutter, and she was pretty sure if she had to live with it for any length of time she'd end up going postal on everyone. Her politically correct justification, however, and the story she was sticking to should anyone bother to ask, was that it was highly unlikely she'd find a buyer for the house looking the way it did now.

Third, you could barely turn around without knocking something over, so where was Lizzy supposed to play? If the oppressive tastelessness didn't smother the tiny bit of lightheartedness the child had left in her, the sheer number of breakables would surely conspire with little-kid awkwardness to sabotage her ability to navigate the room without coming to grief.

But what if Lizzy
hated
the idea of her aunt making changes to her mother's house? Abruptly overwhelmed by all the responsibilities in her life, Veronica found herself suddenly unable to catch her breath. Panicking, she struggled to draw oxygen into her lungs, but the harder she tried, the more impossible it seemed to become.

Recognizing in a distant corner of her mind that she was hyperventilating, she turned back into the kitchen and grabbed a paper lunch bag out of the bottom drawer. She slid down to sit cross-legged on the floor and shook the bag open; then, bracing her elbows on her knees, she clamped the opening over her mouth and nose as she frantically inhaled and exhaled into the sack.

Oh, God, how on earth had it come to this? She'd forged a good life for herself. She had her career, which was just beginning to enjoy a measure of success, her friends in the city, suave men to escort her to the type of events she liked to attend, and the occasional weekend with her niece, where she got all of the fun of parenting without the commitment.

How had she ended up back in Fossil, working in a bar she'd labored so hard to escape, living in a house whose furnishings made her grind her teeth, and acting as a full-time parent?

Good grief, Davis, you're not the one with the big problems here. When did you turn into such a whiner?
Hoping the paper bag had done its job, she lowered it experimentally, then climbed up off the floor.

Enough of the poor-pitiful-me's, appealing as a nice, satisfying wallow might be. It was fruitless to ask
how
these things had come to pass—the changes were simply a fact of her life and she'd have to adapt to them. There was too much to be done.

She located a cardboard box and faced the living room once again, trying to decide where to start.

She was still vacillating when the back door opened and Cooper strolled in. He walked right up behind her and bent his head until his lips almost touched her ear. “Admiring the glow from all that gold?” His body heat at her back and his warm breath traveling the whorls of her ear sent goose bumps skittering down her right side.

“Absolutely.” She turned to face him, forcing herself not to give him the satisfaction of taking the giant step backward she so longed to take. What
was
it about this
guy, anyway? Every time he drew near, her skin went all itchy and her hormones started doing the “La Cucaracha.”

He glanced past her into the living room. “Your sister sure had interesting taste. Thai cathouses don't use this much glitter.”

“You'd know, I'm sure.” And she didn't
even
want to contemplate the images that brought to mind. “But don't tell me you don't
like
this.” Touching her fingertips to her chest, she gave him a big-eyed look of feigned amazement. “Why, I simply can't imagine. Can you honestly look me in the eye and say you don't find it positively spectacular?”

His gaze zoomed in on her, and for just a second she lost her place. There was a sudden intensity in the depths of his eyes that seemed to make the planes of his cheekbones even sharper than usual.

Then she blinked and gave herself a mental shake. “Did I mention I was an interior decorator? Not that it takes a trained professional to see this room is special, of course.” She gave him a vacuous look and heaved a melodramatic sigh. “I just
adore
glitter. It's my life.”

His dark-eyed gaze tracked over her from head to foot. “You know, I think I would have guessed that, just from the way you dress.”

She looked down at her black sweater, khakis, and black ballerina flats. What was wrong with the way she dressed? Just because it wasn't flashy didn't mean it was dull.

He tapped the box she held against her hip. “And I suppose your crate here is for…?”

“Why, holding whatever treasures I select for my personal use, of course.” Veronica stepped into the
room, swept up a particularly atrocious knickknack, and held it up for Coop's perusal. “Isn't this just the
sweetest
?” She dumped it in the cardboard box and selected another, and then another yet. “Gosh, I sure hope I don't clear the entire room. I can be
such
a little greedy guts.” She would never in a bazillion years admit this, but his presence actually made the process of packing up much easier.

Within moments, she had a jam-packed box and was beginning to see daylight on the couch, coffee table, and two end tables. She glanced up at Coop, who had propped a wide shoulder against the curved molding of the archway and made himself right at home. “I've reserved the cream of the crop for Lizzy and me, of course, but, please feel free to select something for yourself.” She gave him her most innocent look. “You look like the type to enjoy a good bullfight—or to at least sling your fair share of bull—so perhaps the velvet painting of the matador? It has that lovely rococo frame.”

He couldn't quite disguise his horror as he looked at the picture in question. But when he looked back at her, a wry smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. “That's mighty kind of you,” he said. “But I wouldn't dream of depriving you of such a rare gem.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And that's no bull.”

She actually laughed aloud. Then she glanced down at the photograph she'd picked up to add to the box and went breathless for the second time that afternoon, as a thousand memories slammed through her.

Coop watched the humor that had lit up her face abruptly snuff out and wondered what had happened.
He told himself he didn't really want to know. Hell, he hadn't meant to get sucked into her orbit again, but she was like some damn magnet, and whenever he found himself anywhere in her vicinity, he ended up drawn in. If he was smart, he'd turn around and walk away right now.

Instead, he tilted his head to see the photograph in her hand. “Is that your dad?”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her thumb over the likeness of the dark-haired, laughing man in the picture. “He died two years ago.”

“Aw, I'm sorry—it's tough to lose a parent. My dad died when I was fifteen and my mother about four years ago.” To drive the sad, defeated look from her face he pointed at a worn-looking woman caught in the act of swabbing down the bar in the background. “Who's this, a former barmaid?”

“Oh, God. Close.” She emitted a brittle laugh. “My mother.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. It—that is, I just thought—”

“What anyone would have thought, so don't worry about it.” Her voice held a cynical sort of dryness, but when she gazed down at the framed photo and her eyebrows gathered over the slender arch of her nose, it looked like she was in pain. “Mama worked herself into an early grave and Daddy let her. No, worse than that—he encouraged it because he thought it was her
job
to make his life easier. His, naturally, was to party with the clients and pour drinks. Mama worked her fingers to the bone trying to keep all the rest of it together.” Veronica wedged the framed photo into a tiny space in the corner of the box she'd placed on the
couch. Then she simply stood there for a moment, staring at the overflowing container.

Her bent head exposed her nape and Coop had to stuff his hands into his front pockets to keep from reaching out to touch it. “And you resented him for that?” he asked a little testily.

“Some. Mostly I resented
her
for allowing it. Mama could have put her foot down anytime during all those years, but she never did.” She shrugged and turned to face him. “All I know is, I'm never going to carry some man on my back, and if I ever do fall in love, it'll be with someone who treats me as an equal partner and carries his own weight.”

“I imagine your dad must have been pretty lost when she died, though.” Now, where the hell had that come from? He didn't know the first thing about her father or what the man had felt when his wife died. Yet somehow he had the crazy-ass urge to offer Veronica comfort.

Rocking back on his heels, he added cynically, “He had to have missed all the work that was no longer getting done, if nothing else.”

Veronica made a skeptical sound. “He missed her cleaning/bartending/waitressing skills, for sure. But he thought Crystal and I would be thrilled to step in and assume Mama's responsibilities at the Tonk.”

Coop snorted. “I can just imagine your reaction to that. I bet you told him to stuff it, huh?”

“Not exactly. I worked the Tonk until I graduated from college.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“My relationship with Daddy wasn't exactly sim
ple,” she said defensively. “I loved him; I resented him. And I guess you're right—he
was
sort of lost after Mama died, and probably for more reasons than the loss of the work she did. I mean, he loved her—I know he did. He just never seemed to notice that she was killing herself in order to keep everything running smooth for him.” Veronica picked up a fussy little porcelain shepherdess but paused with her hand suspended over the box to look up at him. “He wasn't a bad man—I don't want you getting the wrong idea. He was the worst sort of chauvinist, but he was also funny and warm…and he was my father. He just never understood the first thing about me or what I wanted.”

He moved nearer. “Did he understand your sister?”

She garbled a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Those two were peas in a pod. Crystal loved the Tonk, too, and she was a regular chip off the old block.”

“How's that?”

“She loved to party as much as Daddy did. And she, too, had a talent for getting away with the least amount of work possible.”

“How about you? Did you—”

The back door banged open and his question was swallowed up in the sudden cacophony as Lizzy blew in, trailed by a curly-haired blonde who was about her size and a lanky boy who looked to be a couple of years older. Given their noise level, it took Coop a moment or two to sort out just who was whom in this little party. But once he had, he saw that it was the other two kids who provided all the hullabaloo. Lizzy was her usual quiet self, but she smiled as she listened to her friends and stroked the fluffy kitten she had
tucked up under her chin and clutched against her pea-jacket-covered chest.

“Oh, please,” Veronica whispered hollowly as she stared at Lizzy and the little cat. “Please,
please,
let this not be what I think it is. That's
all
I need.”

Coop had a feeling she was pleading a lost cause, for Lizzy's face lit up the moment she spotted them through the archway. “Aunt Ronnie, Coop! Lookit what Mrs. Martelucchi gived me when I walked by her house from the bus! She said I could keep him if it was okay with you.” Hope shone in her eyes. “He's six months old, so he's potty-trained and everything. He goes outside, so we wouldn't have to buy him a litter box.”

“Damn,” Veronica said under her breath, and Coop marveled that so much vehemence could be so nearly inaudible. Her lips barely moved. “Damn, damn, damn.” Then she sighed and, raising her voice, said, “Okay.”

“I can
keep
him?”

“Sure, why not? Riley, close the door, honey, so he doesn't get out. He'll need to get used to being here. Have you and Dessa met Mr. Blackstock? Coop, you've met Marissa Travits; these are her children.”

“Hey, Mr. Blackstock,” Dessa and Riley said almost simultaneously, then grinned at each other and bumped shoulders.

“Call me Coop,” Coop said and exchanged pleased-to-meet-yous with both kids.

Veronica crossed the room and plucked the kitten out of Lizzy's arms and held it up until they were nose to nose. The cat had medium-long hair and was solid black except for a white blaze on his chest and one
white paw, which he batted at Veronica's cheek. He looked at her through coppery eyes the size of pennies. “What's his name?”

“Boo. For some guy named Boo Radley, Mrs. Martelucchi said.” Indifferently, Lizzy shrugged the shoulder that emerged from her jacket as she peeled off the garment. “I don't think he lives in the neighborhood.”

A sound of choked laughter rattled in Veronica's throat and Coop grinned.

“If I had a cat,” Riley interjected, “I'd name it Booger, or Spike, or something phat like that.”