Worked to Death (Working Stiff Mysteries Book 2) (24 page)

CHAPTER TWO

I hefted an expandable file off the floor beside my desk and settled in for an exhilarating eight hours of typing Answers to Interrogatories. Interrogatories are written questions that have to be answered by both plaintiffs and defendants, things like: What were you looking at two seconds before you tripped over that crack in the sidewalk and fell four years ago? This is the glamorous side of being a legal secretary. Because I was the rookie, the less desirable jobs like typing multi-paged motions and Answers to Interrogatories fell to me, and I let them fall. I like to think it was because of my emotional maturity, but I suspect it was because of my lack of assertiveness. My sister, Sherri, always exhorted me to open my mouth for something other than eating, but when you're five-three and weigh only ninety pounds, you can't afford to waste that much energy. I know what you're thinking: such a problem to weigh only ninety pounds. Let me give you a different perspective on it. I'm thirty-three, and I still wear training bras.

Before too long, Paige showed up, grunted hello and disappeared into the kitchen for her coffee break, having exhausted herself from the three mile commute. That was all the conversation I could handle from Paige, so I stayed where I was, typing away diligently, until my interoffice phone line buzzed and I was summoned to the conference room.

The whole staff was there when I arrived, their expressions reflecting varying degrees of pain, the reason for which soon became apparent. Dougie had connected his laptop to the flatscreen and was punching keys with that gleam in his eye that signified the unfurling of a new commercial spot. Usually after one of his commercials appeared, we were overrun for the next week by lunatics with dollar signs in their eyes. I wasn't looking forward to it. Dougie's existing clients were scary enough.

Ken Parker, the elder statesman and founder of the firm, had been given the seat of dubious honor in front of the flatscreen. Ken was slipping into old age with a grace reserved for the very rich. Tennis and sailing preserved his trimness, daily naps preserved his stamina, and hair like a Samoyed, thick and white, preserved his handsomeness. He had the reputation around the county for being a few degrees short of plumb, but he had more integrity than anyone I'd ever met and the sort of gentlemanly good manners most women have only heard about in rumor.

The third partner, Howard Dennis, was standing by the window, punching numbers into his cell phone and looking self-important while the firm's associate, Wally Randall, openly adored him. Howard was built like a bathtub with fangs, and he kept them sharp chewing on the secretarial staff. If I had to choose between a night with Howard and a night in hell, I'd start shopping for a fan.

Wally was Howard's pet lawyer, and he was kept on a choker. Wally didn't use the bathroom if Howard didn't rubber stamp it first. He was tall, dark, and awkward, with wrist bones like radio knobs, and knees that clicked and popped like castanets. You heard Wally coming well before you saw him. He claimed this was due to college football injuries, but I knew better. I knew it was from crawling around behind Howard.

The bookkeeper, Janice Iannacone, was closest to the door, looking like she might make a run for it. This was her usual post during office meetings. I used to think it was Dougie's commercials that made her so sour, since she knew better than anyone what they cost the firm. I came to learn she was sour because she detested everyone and everything. Including her ex-husband, or maybe because of him.

I spotted an open seat beside Donna Warren, the overworked paralegal. Donna was sitting at the table with an open law book in front of her, scribbling on a legal pad and trying to disappear. I knew how she felt. I'd rather be typing Answers to Interrogatories myself. You couldn't describe Donna. To describe her would be to describe the air. Such was her ability to vanish into her environment.

"Okay, we're all here," Dougie said, unnecessarily. "Got the new spot here. Let's take a look, shall we?"

All the blood drained from Ken's face as the screen flickered to life, and Television Dougie appeared, shellacked and pancaked, looking more like a cadaver than a representative of one of the county's wealthiest law firms.

"It's a different world today," he intoned with appropriate somberness. "Car accidents. Slip and falls. Medical mistakes. At any moment of any day, you could fall victim to someone else's negligence, and who would pay the price?"

Ken glanced up. "A little heavy-handed, isn't it?"

Television Dougie was steamrolling on. "Has someone you love been unjustly arrested for drug possession? Have you suffered the indignity of losing your license for driving under the influence?"

Ken did something that sounded like a moan.

"For Christ's sake," Howard said. Only he said it into his cell phone, with his back turned to the television.

"Keep watching," Dougie said, implying it was about to get better.

It didn't.

"Don't suffer one more day. Call the law office of Parker, Dennis, and Heath, and let us help you get every penny you deserve." TV Dougie slammed his fist down on the table, and all of us jumped. All of us except for Howard. He was too busy listening to his voice mail. "We'll get justice for you," TV Dougie vowed. "Someone must pay!" An oily smile, a flash of gum, a lurid wink, and the firm's phone number mercifully appeared over his face before the screen went black.

Dougie powered off the flatscreen. "Pretty good, huh?"

"You might want to think about whitening strips," I said.

He frowned at me.

Ken shifted in his chair, sighing heavily. "I've told you before, we partners should approve these scripts. I can't say I think much of your lottery approach."

Dougie's eyebrows drew down, making him look more perplexed than usual. "Melissa? What do you think?"

Missy swallowed hard. "To tell you the truth, Doug, I agree with Ken. It's not very…classy. It could use a little…"

"Class," Paige said.

Missy looked at her. "Right."

Dougie's lower lip pooched out. "Well, my wife liked it."

"I hate it," Missy said.

"I hate it, too," Paige said.

Dougie blinked in open surprise. "Donna? What about you?"

Donna pulled her face out of the law book, her cheeks the color of burgundy wine. "I, um, didn't really–"

"Why're you asking her?" Wally practically yelled. "Who cares what the
support staff
thinks?"

Donna glowered at Wally before disappearing back into her legal research. Instantly her expression smoothed out and became placid. I envied her ability to escape with such ease.

"Well, I like it." Dougie gathered up his laptop. "It'll start running this Friday night, during Springer."

"Naturally," Ken said. "Are we quite through here? I have a meeting with Dr. Forchet." He pushed himself to his feet and left the room without waiting for an answer. One day I hope to have that much self-confidence. I won't even walk out on the cleaning crew.

"Did anyone make coffee?" Paige asked the room at large. "We're out of coffee. I need a cup of coffee."

"Dunkin Donuts made some." Missy tapped my arm. "Let's go, Jamie. We've got work to do."

She pushed me along with the force of her anger, and when we got back to our desks, I said, "Are you okay? You seem a little irritated. I'm sure Paige can make her own coffee."

"
My wife liked it."
Missy shuddered. "That guy should get a clue. I think all those dumbbells have gone from his hands to his head."

I watched her savage her computer mouse for a few seconds. This was interesting. Missy's usual reaction to the TV spots was more benign "So what do you care if his wife liked it?" I said finally. "Someone has to."

"I don't," Missy said, jamming a sheaf of paper into her printer tray. "I don't care at all. Those two deserve each other."

Uh-oh. I was leaving that one alone.

"Hey, Winters."

I looked up to find Wally hovering over my monitor, holding something that looked suspiciously like Interrogatories. "You wanna type these up for me real quick?" He did something with his lips that resembled a smile.

I didn't, but I couldn't think of a polite way to decline, and Missy didn't seem to be volunteering for the job, so I grabbed the pages and tossed them on the desk.

His lips flatlined. "I need them by two o'clock."

"You'll get them," Missy said, "when she gets around to them."

I nodded. Wally went white with indignation and stomped off to find Howard. Missy gave me an encouraging smile and bent her head to her own work while I resumed typing the Interrogatory answers. I wasn't sure what Missy's problem was with Doug, but it was between the two of them. The truth is, I would've run shrieking from this job in the first week if it hadn't been for Missy. I'm still holding that out as an option if my paycheck ever bounces. Not that I expected that to happen. All the partners drove Mercedes, and Wally had a baby Beemer. Even Janice had managed to save enough to buy a used Lexus. As much as everyone hated to admit it, this was probably due to Dougie's shameless commercial spots. The spots brought in every hothead within the viewing area with an axe to grind, but they also brought in a seven-figure revenue stream, according to Missy. It made me feel a little sorry for Ken Parker. He'd founded a dignified solo practice and would retire from a three-ring circus with Dougie Digits as the head clown.

CHAPTER THREE

The next day, Paige demonstrated remarkable planning skills by showing up with a giant cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. She settled at her desk, and the three of us did what legal secretaries do, keeping the firm afloat with little or no recognition. Every now and then, Wally showed up to drop files on the floor by my desk before running back to Howard's side. Janice stopped by Paige's desk to rifle through her client ledger sheets and growl at us. Donna floated past with her nose in a law book. I kept an eye on the clock so I wouldn't miss lunch. It was pretty much business as usual until my skin began to prickle, and I looked up to find a gorgeous blonde woman standing in front of my desk. All three of us stopped typing simultaneously. Or maybe the power cut out from her force field.

"I'd like to see Mr. Heath. My name is Victoria Plackett." She gave me the sort of smile that opened doors and wallets alike. I wondered if she practiced it in front of the mirror. It just wouldn't be fair if that came naturally.

Across the room, Paige hung onto her desk with bared claws and practically fell off her chair to get a better look.

"Do you have an appointment?" I flipped through the Law Diary's calendar pages until I got to the right date. At least I think it was the right date. This woman's perfume was smothering my synapses.

"I'm sure he'll see me," she said, smile still firmly in place. "I have an interesting case for him."

"I'm afraid he's very busy," Missy began, when Dougie thumped down the steps cradling a Playboy magazine, which pretty much killed that notion.

"Winters, the toilet upstairs is clogged, and I want you t
o
" He stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth still open. "Well, hello." He oozed up next to the blonde with one hand out and the other tucking the magazine behind his back. "I'm Doug Heath. How can I help you?"

The blonde let Dougie fondle her hand for a moment before taking it back, while the smile ratcheted from brilliant to dazzling. Any more charm and I'd need sunglasses "I'd like to speak to you about a case, if you have the time. Your girl here says you're busy."

I thought I heard a hiss coming from Missy's direction.

Dougie flung the Playboy onto my desk and pretended to consult the calendar while digging banana remnants out of his incisors with his pinky. He bared his teeth at me. I nodded briefly. He nodded back and straightened. At least I think he straightened. She had about six inches on him in bare feet, and her feet were not bare. They were strapped into dangerous-looking spike-heeled sandals.

Missy cleared her throat. "Doug, aren't you supposed t
o
?"

"No," Dougie said, not taking his eyes off the blonde.

"But I'm sure that the luncheon i
s
"

"No," Dougie said again. "That's next week."

"Okay," Missy said, a little frosty. "But the Nobel committee will be very disappointed."

Dougie did an Elvis thing with his top lip and escorted the blonde to the stairs with one hand at her elbow, probably to keep from tripping over his tongue. Missy watched them with more venom than a cobra. Paige stuck out her tongue at their backs and was touching up her makeup before the blonde's heel hit the first step, since Paige tended to run about as deep as a puddle.

I had enough of my own neuroses that I didn't need to share theirs, so I went back to work. One of the skills I'd acquired in my time with Parker, Dennis, and Heath was the ability to type kindling-dry legalese without actually reading it. This came in handy whenever Howard Dennis presented me with one of his excruciating product liability Complaints. While Dougie's Complaints used words like "outrageous" and "pomposity," Howard's used lots of "wherefores" and "hereupons." It was the difference between reading Tolstoy and reading Jackie Collins. Jackie was entertaining, but she wasn't going to expand your sphere of knowledge. Anyway, the ability to slog through the legalese while planning your weekend was a skill useful in waiting rooms, where you could pretend you were reading the Wall Street Journal while eavesdropping on the people around you.

I was almost finished with Wally's emergency desk clutter when I came across something undecipherable. Squinting at it didn't help, so I took it over to Missy and pointed. "Can you tell what this is supposed to be?"

She looked up from the letter she was working on, said, "No clue," and lowered her head again. Guess she was still miffed at Dougie.

I glanced over at Paige, who was hard at work trimming her cuticles. "You want to take a stab at it?"

"Whose is it?" she asked, as if that made a difference.

"Wally's," I said.

She shuddered. "No, thanks. That boy should've been a doctor with that handwriting."

Now I had to track down the boy genius. The best place to start would be Howard's office, since Wally liked to sit quietly in there and soak up the atmosphere.

I stomped up the stairs, legal pad clamped to my chest, and peeked through doorways. Janice's office was the first at the top of the stairs. She snarled at me when I poked my head around the corner. Dougie's door was closed, and I saw no good reason to open it. Predictably, Wally's office was empty, as was Howard's.

Ken Parker's office was at the end of the hallway. Ken had a standing open-door policy except from three to four each afternoon, when he eschewed good interoffice relations for a daily nap. It was open now, so I thought I'd stop in to thank him for the party invitation.

"Damn it, Ken!" Howard's bluster stopped me in my tracks. "His goddamn commercials are making us a laughingstock!"

Howard and I didn't agree on the color of paint on the walls, but I couldn't argue with him there.

Ken said something I couldn't hear, but I heard Howard just fine. "Then we should get him the hell out of here! Is this the sort of practice you want to have?"

I'd heard enough. I wasn't comfortable eavesdropping on them, because I didn't want to risk getting fired but mostly because I couldn't hear Ken. Besides that, Wally was just coming out of the restroom rubbing his palms on his slacks while he clicked along on those rickety knees, and he zeroed in on me like a laser-guided missile. "What are you doing up here?" He was practically glowering with righteous indignation. Wally liked to keep the second floor unsullied by the riffraff secretarial staff downstairs. Since it seemed he didn't wash his hands in the restroom, he apparently wanted to sully it himself. "You got my Answers?"

Silence fell in Ken's office, and I bit my lip, wishing I'd had the good sense to eavesdrop when Wally was in court. The little non-hygienic weasel had a knack for showing up at just the wrong time. "I need an interpretation," I said, borrowing the blonde's bright smile, because everyone knew any man could be won over with charm and a bright smile.

Any man except Wally. "I knew you didn't belong in the legal field," he muttered, snatching the papers from my hand. I swallowed a "Same to you, fella," and waited while he frowned at his own handwriting.

Howard Dennis strolled out into the hallway while I was waiting. I tried hard not to glance his way, afraid I'd look as guilty as I felt. He was sporting the casual look, which for Howard meant his coat was unbuttoned, and his puffy little hands were thrust into his pants pockets. He came right up behind Wally and peered over his shoulder through half glasses, reading from the legal pad. I could have sworn Wally leaned back against him, but I was probably wrong. Probably Howard just blew in his ear.

"Good work, son," Howard told him.

Wally beamed.

Howard looked at me. "What are you doing up here?"

"I just asked her that," Wally said. "She can't do her job without help."

I waited for him to stick out his tongue at me. It wouldn't have surprised me. "I do need help, Howard," I said agreeably. "He gave me an emergency project, and I can't read his handwriting, and it's delayed my getting to work on your Complaint."

Wally's smile disappeared at the same time as Howard's, for an entirely different reason. "No," he snarled, shoving the pad back at me.

I stared at him. "You're not going to decipher it?"

"N-O," he said, enunciating so exactingly I could count the veins in his neck. "It says 'no.' Can't you read? It's perfectly clear to me. And by the way, the toilet's clogged. Call a plumber."

"After you type my Complaint," Howard added.

And Wally said, "Of course, of course."

"But didn't you just use the bathroom?" I asked.

"There's no need for insolence," Wally said. "Go. Type. Call."

He'd make a fine dictator one day. I left the two of them stewing in their own grandeur while I fled back to the safety of the secretarial pool. By the time I got there, I was hungry from the stress of the second floor. I kept a box of Tastykakes stashed in my desk drawer for moments like this, so I hauled out a package of Butterscotch Krimpets. Nothing wrong with me that a good sugar fix couldn't cure.

Missy looked up when she heard the crinkle of the wrapper. "Uh-oh. Everything okay?"

I leaned my elbows on Wally's legal pad with a sigh. "What are the chances Wally will get fired by five o'clock?"

"Not good," she said. "He cleans Howard's pool on the weekends."

I grinned. She grinned back.

"You shouldn't eat those," Paige told me. "They'll go right to your hips."

"I can only hope," I said. If they did, it'd be the first time in my life I had hips. I finished the first Krimpet and eyed the second.

"Don't do it," Paige warned. "It's all fat and sugar."

"Your lipstick's smeared," Missy told her, and Paige retreated to her mirror in alarm.

"Don't worry about your hips," Missy said, even though I wasn't. "And don't worry about Wally. I'm going to put a box of Midol in his Christmas stocking this year. You'd be better off worrying about Dougie. His wife's on her way here to have lunch with him."

The Krimpet stuck halfway down my throat, and my breath stuck halfway up. I'd met Hilary Heath a few times, and those meetings had been only marginally more pleasant than a gynecological exam. The best word to describe Hilary was
sharp.
She had a body like a letter opener and the sort of eyes that could perform x-rays. More importantly, she had Dougie, and she protected her investment through unannounced inspections and merciless interrogation of the support staff. Hilary trusted very few and liked no one. Rumor had it that she'd once had a secretary fired for laughing at one of Dougie's lame comments. Hilary thought it indicated an unacceptable level of intimacy.

I shot a wild look at the clock. "You think we could take lunch early today?"

"You could," Missy said, "but why miss the fun when Hil finds Dougie up there with Bambi?"

"She's right," Paige said. "This'll be good."

It did have a certain appeal, but Missy seemed to be looking forward to Hilary's arrival a little too much.

"I don't know if I have the stomach for this," I said. "It might be too much confrontation for one day."

Missy shrugged. "Leave if you want, but I'm not going anywhere. Dougie's got this coming.
My wife loved it.
Huh."

Paige and I looked at each other.

"Besides," Missy added, "I'm skipping lunch today. I'm seeing Braxton tonight."

Braxton Malloy, the pharmacist Missy kept penciled-in on her Daytimer for a Monday night playdate. The relationship kept Missy in discounted prescriptions and qualified as a weekly aerobic workout at the same time.

Being the inveterate list maker that I am, working out has been on my to-do list for years. I just never seem to be able to find something I liked enough to stick with. At the moment I was trying to practice yoga, but because I had the flexibility of a two by four, that wasn't going so well. And I had a little trouble achieving oneness with the universe, since the universe was always conspiring to cheat me out of the finer things in life, like patience, wisdom, and a good parking spot at the mall.

Maybe I needed a Braxton. But first I needed to escape Hilary Heath.

MOTION FOR MURDER

available now!