The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel (2 page)

Bill MacPherson set down the letter from his younger sister, Elizabeth. “She’s checked herself into Cherry Hill Hospital,” he murmured. “Voluntary commitment for depression. Poor kid. I wonder if I should go down there?”

His law partner shrugged. “Maybe later. Just now I don’t think you’d be much help. Men never are with other people’s troubles. Your sister has lost her husband, and she’s getting professional help, which is very sensible of her. Unless she asks you to visit, I think you ought to leave her alone to get on with it.”

Bill MacPherson looked relieved. “I probably wouldn’t be any use,” he admitted.

“Probably not. Send her flowers if it makes you feel any better.”

A. P. Hill balanced her coffee mug on the edge of the table and sat down in the plastic chair next to Bill’s desk. She looked with disfavor at her partner’s shabby office, with its Bargain Barn metal office furniture, dusty plastic plant, and a crisp, white William & Mary law degree on the dingy beige wall. “Somebody ought to send me flowers,” she muttered. “I have to work in the black hole of Calcutta. If that isn’t depressing, I don’t know what is.”

“What’s depressing?”

A. P. Hill waved her hand to indicate the general squalor of Bill’s office. “Look at this place.”

“I’m not cleaning it,” said Bill warily, trying to edge between his partner and her view of his cluttered desk.

“No. Cleaning it wouldn’t help. At least the dust is organic.” She pointed at the plastic plant and shuddered. “I mean, look how small this place is. And how shabby. My office isn’t
any better. Except that I don’t have a stuffed groundhog in a dress on the top of my filing cabinet.” She turned her head to look at the offending object and shuddered again. “This whole building is a disaster. Sometimes I think the best way for us to drum up business for a criminal practice would be to loiter outside in the halls.”

“Yes,” said Bill, “you’d certainly meet people who need lawyers out there, but they probably couldn’t afford us. Unless you’d take a pillowcase full of silverware for a retainer. Still, when we graduated from law school, you said you wanted to set up your own practice. You didn’t want to go into a law firm full of—what did you call them?”

“Silverbacks,” she muttered.

“Right. I knew it was a term for male gorillas. A law firm full of silverbacks, where large, aging males would call the shots, and you would be the most junior member of the firm. People would try to call you Amy. You said that, as a beginner in a big law firm you’d never get to do anything but scut work, and that you’d probably choke to death on your own rage.”

A. P. Hill nodded. “I know. I still feel that way.”

“Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven, you said.”

She looked around the shabby office and scowled. “I didn’t mean it quite so literally.”

“Well, one thing you can say for this place: it doesn’t intimidate the clients.”

“No. It probably makes the prospect of prison seem less awful, too.”

“Unpretentious. That’s us.”

“I wish we had something to be pretentious about! Bill, we have to get out of here. I know that this place was all we could
afford when we graduated, but we’re doing better now, and we ought to be representing a better class of clients. We’ll never get them if we stay here. I think it’s time we looked for more suitable quarters.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever,” Bill said cheerfully. “Just find the place, and tell me when to start packing. I can be ready on a day’s notice. Less, even. I kept the cardboard box in the coat closet.”

“That’s just it. I don’t have time to look for property. I’m in court in Richmond beginning this week, remember? I’m always up to my neck in case work. I thought maybe you could go.”

Bill turned to stare at his partner. “You want me to buy a building? Me? Didn’t I find this place?”

“Well … talk to a Realtor. See what’s out there.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Tara.” Edith Creech, their legal secretary, stood in the doorway, cordless phone in hand. “If you want pretentious, you ought to buy one of those run-down old mansions and fix it up. It would look great to clients. It would give them the impression of an old, established firm.”

“Sounds expensive,” said Bill.

“Well, if you get a big enough place, you could convert the upstairs rooms into apartments for yourselves. That way you could channel your rent money into an investment in the business. It would probably be cheaper anyway.”

A. P. Hill nodded. “That might work. We’d pay more for office rent, but we’d save money on housing. It would be nice to have a kitchen on the premises. We could save a fortune on lunches. And an exercise room! We’d have to look into the tax implications, of course.…”

Bill looked at Edith with interest. “Are you holding the telephone for any particular reason?”

She gasped. “Lord, I completely forgot! Long-distance call for A. P. Hill. Someone called Purdue.”

A. P. Hill looked puzzled and held out her hand for the phone. “It can’t be her. What can she want? I’ll be in my office,” she murmured and hurried away.

Edith looked at Bill. “She doesn’t usually get flustered. What was that about?”

Bill sighed. “Voice from the past.” He reached for his jacket. “An old friend from law school. At least I think they were friends. It’s hard to tell. They had a rivalry going that gave the rest of us headaches.”

“A school rivalry, huh? Who won?”

“Too close to call. They both graduated in the top five. A guy named Anthony Chan finished ahead of them, but they didn’t seem to care about that. They were out to beat each other. It was personal. If Purdue is calling to say that she’s been elected governor of Tennessee or something, it could get dicey around here. Things may start bouncing off walls. And if she’s coming to visit …” He looked around the office, picturing a visitor’s reaction to their less-than-luxurious premises. “We have to impress her, or life won’t be worth living in Powell’s vicinity. I think it’s Realtor time.”

“Realtor? Already?” Edith blinked. Normally Bill took longer than that to decide which doughnut he wanted. “Don’t you want to read the newspaper ads? Shouldn’t there be more discussion about what sort of place you’re looking for?”

“Powell may be a while on the phone. And I know what
she’s like after a session with Purdue. I think I’ll get out of here. Tell her where I’ve gone.”

“Right. You’re going to buy an office.”

“I guess. I’m going to do some serious looking, anyhow. See what’s available. Do you really think we ought to get a big house for an office and live in the upstairs?”

Edith shrugged. “That’s what the Queen of England does.”

A
. P. Hill sat down in her leather desk chair and closed her eyes, wondering when she had lost control of the day. It could be some other Purdue, though. Yeah. Sure. Maybe she’d heard about the rats’ nest office and was calling to sneer. Mustering calm, she said, “Powell Hill speaking.”

“So it is,” cackled the voice on the other end of the line. “Pollyanna of the Virginia Bar. How’s it going, kiddo? Still practicing law in Mayberry with your St. Bernard puppy?”

“Bill and I are doing fine, Purdue,” said A. P. Hill evenly. “Thank you so much for asking.” She knew that the other high fliers in law school had regarded her partnership with Bill MacPherson as an act of charity, but she wouldn’t stand to have him criticized. He might lack ambition—or ruthlessness—but he had his good points, too. He was honest, loyal, hardworking, and kind. Maybe he trusted people more than was wise, but A. P. Hill thought that she might be bitter and cynical enough for both of them. After a lifetime of driving ambition, being partners with Bill MacPherson was … peaceful. She could have done worse.

P. J. Purdue had been one of the brightest students in their class, but she had a wild streak that boded ill for the sober
profession of law. She could be recklessly brilliant, but she hated the methodical, painstaking preparation and research required for the practice of law. Still, Purdue’s grades had been two-hundredths of a point higher than A. P. Hill’s. She was surprised to find that after all this time the fact still rankled. “How are you, Purdue?” she said, trying to sound briskly cheerful. “Still in criminal law?”

The laugh again. “You could say that. Are you being tactful, or what? Tell me: How many of our old buddies have called you lately to talk about me?”

“Called about you?” A. P. Hill couldn’t keep the bewilderment out of her voice. “P. J., I haven’t heard from you—or about you—in ages. What’s going on?”

A pause. “You mean you really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled softly. “Stay tuned. News may travel slowly in Virginia, but I’m sure it’ll filter through the time warp eventually. We may even make a television news channel. Stay tuned.”

“P. J., what—”

“I just wanted to tell you this, kiddo. This is more fun than practicing law. Y’hear? A lot more fun.”

“What—” But before she could frame a question, A. P. Hill heard the click of a telephone receiver being replaced. P. J. Purdue had vanished again.

She was still sitting there with the phone in her hand when Edith came in to see if she had finished talking.

“Runs the batteries down if you leave it off the hook too long,” Edith said, taking the cordless phone back to her desk.
“Is anything the matter? You look like somebody hit you over the head with a parking meter.”

A. P. Hill nodded slowly. “Purdue does that to people.”

“Yeah, I heard she was an old friend of yours.”

“Something like that. I wonder why she called me?”

Edith’s eyebrows rose. “Well … didn’t she tell you?”

A. P. Hill shrugged. “Oh, no. Purdue never does things the easy way. She’s going to make me find out.”

T
he realty company was located in a large old house, which had evidently been a private home, until rezoning and urban sprawl had changed the neighborhood to a collection of car lots and fast-food places. The house still sat in its oak-shaded lawn, but the backyard was now a parking lot, and the interior of the house had been carved up into a dozen tiny offices.

Although the parking lot was nearly empty, Bill MacPherson still had trouble deciding where to put his car. All the spots seemed to be allocated for the Realtors themselves: Diamond Realtor of the Year, Agent of the Month, Gold Key Lister (whatever that was), and Top Seller—Commercial. He didn’t see any spaces marked
CUSTOMER
, so he parked against the split-rail fence at the far end of the gravel lot and walked twenty yards or so to the door.

Bill had hoped the walk would give him time to formulate some sort of opening speech about what he was looking for, but nothing sprang readily to mind, so when the door was opened by a pretty young woman in a red blazer, he blurted out, “I’m looking for a house. Are you a Realtor? Have you ever seen
Gone With the Wind
?”

The woman hesitated for less than a heartbeat, long enough to size up the nice-looking young man in the well-cut jacket and the power tie. Then she said, “I’ll get the keys. We can talk on the way.”

I
t’s like being back in college, thought Elizabeth MacPherson as she lugged her suitcase down the tiled hallway, following the white-coated attendant who would lead her to room 305, her home for the next month. She took a deep breath and studied her surroundings. Just like college. Same dorm smell, same lighting, same feeling of apprehension. Only here, instead of encountering fellow students, you were going to meet crazy people. That turned out to be true of college, too, of course. At least here they were up front about it.

Elizabeth was pleased to find that she was nervous—the sensation of feeling something was a novelty after weeks of numbness. Then she remembered why she had come: an image of Cameron filled her mind, and she pushed it away again. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The feelings were gone. All of them.

“You shouldn’t have any trouble settling in,” the attendant told her. He was a jovial-looking fellow with a round face and lively eyes. “You’ll be in a two-person room, but you’re the only occupant at the moment. Your hallmates can show you the ropes, though. Laundry procedure, where the drink machine is, stuff like that.”

“I don’t feel like socializing,” said Elizabeth. “I’d rather be left alone.”

He nodded cheerfully. “Dr. Freya thought you might. She
said to tell you: ‘No way.’ You’ll be getting a roommate in a day or so.”

“But I’m a voluntary patient. I’m here for depression.”

“Okay.” His tone suggested that it was all the same to him. He would believe anything a patient cared to tell him. If she had said she was a Martian exchange student, his response would have been the same.

“You’re not going to put me in with a crazy person, are you?”

There was a long pause in which Elizabeth could imagine sarcastic answers being framed and then discarded. Finally he said, “We don’t have dangerous patients here. That we know of, anyhow. Just nonviolent types. You’ll be fine.”

Elizabeth thought about arguing the point. She could call Dr. Freya and plead her case for privacy, but all that would take energy, and an amount of interest in her own immediate future that she could not quite muster. That’s why she was here, wasn’t it?

Her escort pushed open the door. “Nobody here yet. Your neighbors are probably in the TV lounge. Well, make yourself at home. If you need anything, there’s always folks around.”

Elizabeth nodded and trudged inside, slinging her suitcase on the twin bed nearest the door. She gave the attendant a halfhearted wave as the door swung shut behind him. She inspected the room and found that, instead of the prisonlike surroundings she was expecting, which would have suited her mood of despair, she was trapped in one of those back-in-college dreams that always end with a panic attack as you try to take the final exam in a course you had never attended. In Elizabeth’s panic
dream the quiz was always in trigonometry. She wondered if real trigonometry exams looked anything like the one in her dreams. If she actually took a course in trig some day, would the nightmare go away, or would the exam simply change to … say … Sanskrit?