Читать книгу Heart Vs. Humbug - M.J. Rodgers - Страница 9

Octavia strode down the dark hallway of the Seattle law offices of Justice Inc., heading for the one door under which the light still burned. She knocked.

The voice on the other side responded instantly, crisply. She opened the door and stepped inside.

Octavia’s senior partner, Adam Justice, sat behind his desk, his black hair still scrupulously in place, his white shirt unwrinkled, despite the fact that it was nearly midnight and Octavia knew he’d been here since dawn.

“What brings you by so late?” Adam asked, putting down his pen and shifting his paperwork aside.

Octavia had always liked that about Adam. No matter how busy or involved he was on a case, he never failed to stop what he was doing and give her his complete attention.

She swung into a utilitarian steel-and-leather chair in front of his black metal desk. Like the man who inhabited it, this office had been stripped of all but necessary business essentials.

“An attorney is causing some legal problems for my grandmother, and I need to spend time across the Sound in Bremerton to straighten it out.”

“This attorney anyone we know?”

“Brett Merlin. He’s representing a real Scrooge of a small businessman who has it in for my grandmother.”

Adam was silent for a moment before responding.

“Taking on the Magician won’t be easy,” he said.

“I know,” Octavia agreed, thinking about her earlier meeting with Brett in his hotel room. She had hoped to reach him, but he had shown neither compassion nor compromise—a real letter-of-the-law kind of attorney.

The law has no room for a heart. What a perfectly imbecilic thing to say!

Octavia lifted her chin. “He’s about to find out that taking me on won’t be easy, either.”

Her senior partner almost smiled. Almost.

“I...see. But what I don’t see is why Brett Merlin would represent a small businessman against your grandmother. Not more than three weeks ago he was responsible for getting a record 55.5 million jury verdict favoring one of his big corporate clients here in Seattle.”

“It’s a question that’s been on my mind, too, Adam. I’m going to have to rely on A.J. and her detective team to sleuth out the answer.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to oblige. If you need my legal assistance or that of any of your fellow partners, you know you only have to ask.”

“I appreciate that. But this is family and that makes it a very personal fight for me.”

“You know how long you’ll be away?”

“Probably through Christmas.”

“Any cases you’re working on that need to be picked up by someone else?”

“Just one. My associate can handle it. I’ve written a few notes to her and left the complete case file on her desk, along with a request to keep you informed of the progress.”

Adam leaned back in his chair as she paused. Octavia knew he was waiting for her to tell him why she was here in person. They both knew there was more, that Octavia could have settled all this with a few telephone calls. She took a deep breath, knowing there was never going to be a “right” moment to broach the subject.

“I want to retain you as my personal counsel, Adam.”

A small frown creased Adam’s brow. “You want me to become your attorney? Officially?”

“As of this moment.” Octavia pulled out a standard Justice Inc. office contract she had already signed and had notarized and passed it across the desk to him along with a check.

Adam scanned the paperwork and check and leaned his forearms on his desk. His light eyes stared into hers.

“This is a bit formal, isn’t it? What’s the story?”

Octavia knew if either Kay Kellogg or Marc Truesdale, her other partners at Justice Inc., had asked her that question, she wouldn’t have told them. She certainly wasn’t about to tell Adam Justice, their firm’s senior partner—not after watching Adam turn from man to legal machine during the last six years.

She sent him a large, charming smile, the kind that she knew he didn’t know how to take. She hoped it might just make him uncomfortable enough to back off the question.

“Insurance,” she said.

The light eyes before her now pointed like two blue lasers. “What do you mean, insurance?”

The smile hadn’t worked. Octavia knew there was only one sure way to effectively distract the legal mind that was now so firmly fixed on what she had no intention of revealing. She was the only partner at Justice Inc. who both knew Adam Justice’s Achilles heel and had the guts to aim for it.

“Six years ago, Adam, you and I were involved in something that neither of us wish to share with anyone else. I want to ensure that neither of us will be forced to speak of it.”

Unconsciously, Adam’s fingers found and stroked the long white scar that disappeared down his neck into his starched white collar.

“You anticipate that someone might try to force answers from you or me about that...time? Why?”

“Anything is possible when it comes to an attorney of Brett Merlin’s ability. I intend to be thorough and aggressive in representing my grandmother. I have no doubt that the Magician will be equally as thorough and aggressive in representing his client. As we both know, his trademark is an uncanny knack for pulling obscure facts and laws out of his legal hat and combining the two to effect his adversary’s demise. I prefer to limit the facts he finds.”

“So by putting our relationship under a formal legal umbrella, you have placed our knowledge of each other and our communications under the attorney-client privilege.”

“Exactly.”

Octavia waited. Nothing showed on Adam Justice’s stone face in the long moment that passed. Only Octavia’s knowledge and sensitivity to the situation allowed her to see the fleeting, tiny flicker of light behind his pale blue eyes.

“All right,” he said finally.

Octavia didn’t show the relief that poured through her. She didn’t dare. Her senior partner was far too observant. He would have immediately suspected her “other” agenda.

Everything had to be done by the book with Adam Justice. Like Brett Merlin, he lived by the letter of the law.

But Octavia was not that kind of lawyer. She used her knowledge of the law to support what she knew to be its true code of justice. And now that the letters in some dusty law book were getting in the way of the spirit with which they were originally formed, Octavia knew it was time to get creative and find a footnote somewhere.

Or pencil one in.

Adam had been the only weak link in the bold plan that she had formulated today. Now that weak link had been braced. Now she could go ahead and fight for justice her way.

* * *

“BRETT, YOU REALLY SHOULD stay here. We’ve plenty of room. It will be no trouble,” Nancy Scroogen insisted as she dished out blueberry pancakes onto Brett’s breakfast plate.

Brett looked up at his aunt, still unsettled to see the deep lines that had dug themselves around her eyes and mouth, seemingly overnight.

Nancy Scroogen was his mother’s youngest sister, a mere ten years older than Brett. Brett had gotten along well with his aunt, admiring Nancy’s tomboy spirit and sense of adventure.

They had corresponded regularly after Nancy had used her journalism degree to land herself a job as a foreign correspondent. Over the years he had enjoyed her light, breezy postcards from exotic ports of call.

Then, seven years before, Nancy had surprised him completely by suddenly giving up her profession and spirit of wanderlust to settle down and marry Dole Scroogen. Brett had barely heard from or seen her since. Until a week ago.

Now, as he looked at her across the dining-room table in Dole Scroogen’s East Bremerton home, he was sad to note how tired she appeared. Despite her assurances to the contrary, he was certain she didn’t need someone else in the house to look after. Not when she already had her hands full, he thought, as he noted the scowling faces of Dole and his son Ronald.

“Thanks, Nancy, but I’m comfortable at the hotel. This matter I’m handling for Dole is very simple and should be settled soon. Then I’ll be on my way to tackle Rainier. I’ve climbed it in summer, but I’m told the real test is in winter.”

“You want to spend Christmas climbing a mountain, Cousin Brett?” six-year-old Katlyn asked.

Brett smiled at Nancy’s little girl sitting beside him. Fortunately for Katlyn, she had inherited her mother’s peachy complexion—and attitude.

“The sunlight sparkling on the snow and trees beats any artificial string of lights, Katlyn.”

“But don’t you want to be home Christmas morning to open all your presents under the Christmas tree?”

Brett stared into his little cousin’s eyes, so obviously full of delighted anticipation for that highlight of the season. Sometimes he wondered what it would have been like to have been brought up believing in fantasy instead of staunchly facing reality.

“Your cousin Brett has never been a big fan of Christmas,” Nancy told her daughter. “Probably because my sister and her husband didn’t believe in decorating or exchanging gifts.”

“You didn’t get Christmas presents when you were a kid?” Katlyn asked in obvious dismay.

“I was given what I needed at other times of the year,” Brett explained.

“Even Santa Claus forgot you at Christmas?”

Brett prided himself on never lying, for any reason. But he also knew from the warning look on Nancy’s face that his answer to Katlyn’s last question had better be the right one.

“What did you ask Santa for this year?” Brett asked, trying to both deflect his inquisitive cousin and to maintain his integrity.

“I sent Santa a whole list. I sure hope he reads it. Why don’t you ask Santa to bring you a mountain so you don’t have to go away?”

“Katlyn,” Nancy intervened, “leave your cousin alone now so he can eat his breakfast in peace.”

“I’m out of syrup,” Ronald Scroogen complained in his typically too loud and too sour tone.

Nancy immediately rushed to her feet to get more from the kitchen. Brett flashed Ronald a disapproving look. The young man could have easily gone to the kitchen and gotten it himself.

Ronald was Dole Scroogen’s twenty-two-year-old son from a previous marriage. He resembled his father physically, right down to the sour puss and whiny tone of voice. He also had that insecure, young man’s way of making everything that came out of his mouth sound like a challenge or a complaint.

Nancy returned to the table with the syrup. Ronald took it out of her hand without a word of thanks.

Brett caught Nancy’s eye over the beautiful handmade wreath of fragrant bay leaves adorning the table’s center. He sent her an appreciative smile.

“Everything smells, looks and tastes wonderful.”

The surprise and gratitude of her returning smile confirmed Brett’s suspicion that his aunt wasn’t accustomed to getting any appreciation from the two other males sitting at this table. He took a sip of her excellent coffee and worked on controlling his growing irritation.

Brett was only here because of Nancy’s call for help. If it hadn’t been for Nancy and her little girl, he’d be long gone on his postponed climb. Seeing how her husband and stepson treated her, Brett was surprised that the full-spirited Nancy he once knew wasn’t long gone, too. What was keeping her here?

Love, he supposed. Brett stabbed his pancake and shoved it into his mouth, knowing it did no good to wonder how anyone could love Dole Scroogen.

Love was an incredibly imbecilic malady that struck even the sanest of souls and overnight turned clear reasoning power into gooey rubber cement. He remembered the affliction well.

He also remembered what it felt like to wake up the next morning only to realize he’d fallen for a fantasy.

Thank God that nonsense was all behind him.

“I don’t suppose you came over this morning just for pancakes, Merlin,” Dole said in his usual sour tone. “What’s on your mind?”

Brett swallowed and took another sip of coffee, trying not to let his uncle’s naturally abrasive manner get to him.

“What you said last night on the telephone disturbed me. It also disturbed me that you hung up afterward when I asked you to wait while I let in room service with my dinner.”

“I’m not a man accustomed to waiting, Merlin. And I meant what I said about that Osborne woman.”

“Look, Dole, we’ve already gone over all the reasons for handling this matter my way. Mab Osborne is popular. Insisting on a head-to-head confrontation would just generate more sympathy for her cause. Getting people to laugh at her instead of listen to her is the proper approach.”

“The Community Development Department is uneasy about all the mail and telephone calls they’ve received,” Dole said. “I’m getting heat from the chamber of commerce, too.”

“They are reacting to the public opinion Mab Osborne has stirred up. But the chamber can’t stop you, and I’m not letting Community Development withdraw your building permits. They were legally filed and approved and I’m making sure they abide by them.”

“But it’s getting worse every day. I even received a threatening letter from the old fools.”

“I wish you didn’t have to force the seniors out of their center, dear,” Nancy interjected.

Dole turned to his wife, his sour puss and whiny voice in full evidence. “Whose side are you on?” he demanded.

“Yours, of course, dear,” Nancy said, sounding immediately conciliatory. “I just wish there was another way.”

“Was the threatening letter signed?” Brett asked.

“No. But I’m certain it’s on Silver Power League stationery and Mab Osborne sent it.”

“Hand it over to the police. Let them investigate.”

“I’ve already done that. They say it could be weeks before they know,” Scroogen grumbled.

“All these irritations are temporary,” Brett assured him. “Once Mab Osborne has been defused, so will that public opinion.”

“What if your plan doesn’t work? What if she continues to whip up public sentiment against me?”

“After the initial article in this Sunday’s paper, I have three follow-up articles scheduled to be released over the next week with selected excerpts from her ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ programs.”

“What good will that do?”

“Mab Osborne likes to say shocking things to get her listeners’ attention. Each excerpt I’ve selected is taken out of context and is more sensational than the last. She’ll be so busy defending herself, she’ll have no time to whip up anything. Be patient. These things take time to work, but they do work.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then I will take the next appropriate step. Mab Osborne is like a fly on your wall, Dole. Its buzzing may be annoying, but we don’t need a shotgun blast to get rid of it. A flyswatter should do the trick.”

“It had better, Merlin.”

Brett didn’t take that kind of sour tone and threatening language from his paying clients, much less from a man he was only representing for the sake of his aunt. Enough was enough. He put down his fork.

“Dole, if you don’t like what I’m doing, then you can go—”

“No!” Nancy interrupted, obviously reading the look on Brett’s face and eager to stop what he would say. She leaned across the table to rest her hand on his.

“No, Brett,” she said in a calmer tone. “Dole is grateful, as I am, for all your help. He’s worked so hard to make this condominium complex happen. It’s the dream of a lifetime. We need you to stand by us to see this dream come true. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Dole deigned to look up from his breakfast.

“Yeah. You do your thing, Merlin, so I can do mine. I need more coffee here, Nancy.”

For once Nancy didn’t obediently jump up. Her hand remained on Brett’s arm, her pleading eyes on his face, waiting for his response. “Brett?”

Brett exhaled a frustrated breath as he nodded.

“The coffee?” Dole’s irritated voice reminded.

Nancy smiled as she rose to her feet. “Coming, dear.”

Brett shook his head as he witnessed the domestic scene. Whoever said someone could become a slave to love knew what he was talking about.

“The city water and sewer lines were connected a day ago,” Scroogen said, sounding pleased for once. “The land should be completely dug out for the underground garage in the next few days. In a week or so, the concrete guys can come in and start on the foundation. Tami, my secretary, is arranging for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. The mayor, the city council, the chamber—everyone who is anyone is being invited.”

“Can I cut the ribbon?” Ronald asked his father, the eagerness and excitement clear in his voice.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Scroogen said. “Someone important, like the mayor, has to cut the ribbon.”

Brett saw what might have been anger or disappointment or both flare through Ronald’s eyes as he rose to his feet and stalked silently away from the breakfast table.

Dole didn’t even look up from his refilled coffee cup. Although not a fan of Dole’s son, Brett felt sorry for him at that moment. No doubt about it, Scroogen could be pretty damn insensitive.

“So, did you ever find out who the redhead was with those old fogys?” Scroogen asked.

The lady’s stunning face and figure flashed through Brett’s mind and with it a very annoying automatic tightening of the muscles down his back.

“She’s Octavia Osborne,” he said, concentrating his eyes on the swirling coffee in his cup. “Mab’s granddaughter.”

“How did you find out?”

“She came to see me last night just before you called.”

“Why did she come to see you?”

Brett looked up at the suspicious tone that had entered Dole’s voice. Did this guy trust anybody?

“To try to warn me away,” Brett answered. “Her threats were dramatic, but empty. Neither Mab Osborne nor her granddaughter can stop progress, no matter how much they might want to.”

“So you’re sure this granddaughter can’t cause any trouble?”

“I’m sure,” Brett said, his words replete with confidence. “Octavia Osborne is no one to worry about. The law is on your side, and I’m here to see it’s enforced.”

The telephone blared at the instant Brett had finished giving his client that positive and unwavering assurance. Nancy got up to answer it and brought the cordless receiver to the table to hand to her husband.

“It’s the foreman at the construction site, dear.”

Dole took the phone. “Yeah?”

Brett watched his uncle’s greenish-tinged face turn positively purple. Finally, Dole threw his napkin onto the floor and flew to his feet.

“What?” he yelled into the mouthpiece.

* * *

OCTAVIA’S GENUINE appreciation flowed through her voice. “Mab, this new community center of yours is outstanding. Its long rectangular shape, myriad skylights, ribbons of leaded glass windows and spotless white tile floor make it marvelously open and spacious. And the soft upholstered furniture you’ve selected adds just the right amount of warmth.”

Mab beamed. “I admit I had my doubts at first about the simplicity of the center’s design, but the natural light and clean lines are effective and efficient. We can cordon off any area with partitions, or open up the whole floor space for a large event, like our annual Christmas party coming up in a couple of weeks. How much better it will be now that we don’t have to crowd everyone into that old barn. Constance’s design was right, as always.”

“Constance Kope designed this center?” Octavia asked. “That little lady who was on your ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ program yesterday?”

“Yes, Constance and her husband owned an architectural design firm before he became ill, and they both retired a few years back. She has an infallible eye for what works.”

“When I think that your Silver Power League single-handedly created this building and all its beauty, I am in awe, Mab.”

Mab smiled proudly. “Wait until you see the greenhouse. Douglas Twitch engineered its habitat to maintain temperature, moisture and lighting control.”

“Douglas is an environmental engineer?” Octavia asked.

“A very fine one, who was put out to pasture only because the big firm he worked at for forty years checked the calendar instead of his contributions.”

“I thought you and Douglas didn’t get along.”

“His mental limitations are irksome. But the greenhouse he designed is an engineering marvel.”

Octavia chuckled at her grandmother’s unmitigated contradiction on the intellectual credentials of Douglas Twitch.

“Lead the way to this greenhouse, Mab.”

“No, first I want you to see what we are doing to raise money for our rent. It’s just a stopgap measure, of course. I’m counting on you to put all your legal training to work to come up with something more permanent. But for now, well, our members are busy working on them over in this room.”

Octavia gave her watch a quick glance. “Them?” she repeated.

Mab smiled. “Come see for yourself.”

Octavia followed her grandmother to the other side of a partition and saw that an assembly line of sorts had been set up. Seniors sat on both sides of a long set of tables drawn close to the windows to receive an optimum of natural light.

Each member of the assembly line had a task. The first attached legs to a stuffed doll’s torso. The second affixed arms that crossed over the doll’s chest. The third screwed on a head. The fourth, hair. And so on down the line until the finished doll emerged at the end, holding in its fist a white piece of paper filled with scribbles.

Octavia picked up one of the completed dolls, examined its thin, ashen-colored hair, tiny dark eyes, sour puss, baggy olive pants and green-and-black-checkered suspenders, and chuckled.

“This doll looks exactly like Scroogen.”

“Squeeze it,” Mab urged.

Octavia did. “Read it and weep, I’m raising your rent.”

Octavia laughed. “It sounds exactly like him, too.”

“John Winslow did the voice. He’s very good at mimicking.”

“When do they go on sale?”

“Today. I’m advertising them on the radio this afternoon. We’re calling it the Scroogen Doll.”

Octavia shook her head as she set the sour-pussed, eight-inch specimen back on the table. “No, could be a legal problem there. Better call it the Scrooge Doll.”

“But we want people to associate it with Scroogen,” Mab protested.

“You think someone could mistake it for anyone else?”

“I guess not. The design is ours, a couple of our members got the materials wholesale, and the rest of our members are doing all the assembly. Our profit is nearly eighty-five percent on each doll. If we can just sell enough of them, we can stave off the Scrooge’s kicking us out for another two months.”

“You’re a marvel, Mab.”

“But as I said, Octavia, it’s only a stopgap measure. We need to find a substantial and consistent money-maker to meet the Scrooge’s ridiculous rent. Although, I must tell you, it galls me to think the money we’re working so hard to raise is all going to line that man’s pockets.”

“Yes, it galls me, too,” Octavia agreed.

“Have you thought of a way to stop him?”

“Let’s just say I’m working on it.”

“What is it, Octavia?”

“What’s what, Mab?”

“Ever since you arrived at my house this morning with your bags and a promise to stay awhile, you’ve been deliberately deflecting my every question about what you did yesterday, and you’ve been purposely vague about how you plan to attack this problem.”

“Have I?”

“Octavia, you’re only vague when you’re involved in something you don’t want me to know about. What is it? And why do you keep looking at your watch?”

Octavia refocused her eyes back on Mab’s face as she wrapped an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders.

“It’s just after nine. Let’s go see that engineering marvel of a greenhouse now.”

“You’re not going to tell me what you’re up to, are you.”

“You are a wise and perceptive lady.”

“And you are an exasperating one.”

Octavia chuckled.

“Oh, come on,” Mab said, her tone resigned. “The greenhouse is this way.”

They stepped out of the brightness of the center into a heavy, overcast day and made their way up a rise and along a graveled path to the large and lovely white-and-glass English-style conservatory that spread elegantly over an entire acre.

“Oh, that is marvelous,” Octavia said in appreciation at the classical, elegant lines of the structure. “When you said greenhouse, I was thinking utilitarian. But using the classic design of an English conservatory makes it absolutely charming.”

“Yes,” Mab agreed mechanically. Her head was turned and she obviously wasn’t listening to her granddaughter.

“What’s going on over there?” Mab asked finally, pointing to the adjacent property where a bulldozer lay idle as several workers stood looking down into a muddy pit.

Octavia leisurely turned in the direction of Mab’s pointing finger. Then her eyes swung immediately to the brand-new bronze Bentley with the license plate reading LAW MAN pulling up to the side of the curb. She smiled as she watched Brett Merlin get out of the driver’s side and Dole Scroogen exit the passenger door.

“The workers seem to have found something,” Mab said, her eyes still fixed on the construction crew.

“Have they? Well, why don’t we go see what it is?” Octavia suggested as she gently steered Mab into the direction of the workers and the pit.

* * *

BRETT SAW OCTAVIA the instant he swung out of the driver’s seat of his Bentley. She wore a turquoise suit with gold trim today, as classy and colorful as the lady herself. Her long flowing hair as before was unfettered, her heels as usual were high. Yet despite those high heels, she somehow seemed to glide across the soft earth toward the construction site.

Brett and Dole reached the construction workers as Octavia and her grandmother strolled up over the slight rise.

“Good morning,” Octavia said with a vivid graciousness that sprayed out like luminous paint over the canvas of the dull day. She was as stunning and self-composed as she had been in his hotel room the night before. Brett found himself instantly on guard. He returned her gracious greeting with a simple nod of the head.

He watched as the grubby workmen around the pit turned to stare at the beautifully groomed woman with the flame-red hair. They quickly got off their knees and onto their feet.

“Morning, ma’am,” they murmured.

Octavia continued to smile as she moved to the edge of the pit and looked over its side at the lone workman at its bottom.

“You seem to have found something there,” she said.

“I don’t appreciate being called and told to drop everything to come out here, George,” Scroogen shouted before the man had a chance to answer Octavia. “What’s going on?”

The stocky, black-haired man in the pit lost the smile he had flashed at Octavia the moment he turned to face Scroogen. “We found this.”

He pointed to a large black stone sticking up out of the pit.

“Well, what is it?” Dole asked.

“It looks like something’s been carved on that stone,” Octavia said, peering down. “You don’t suppose it’s early native American handiwork, do you?”

“I believe it is,” the foreman said, his black eyes glowing above his high cheekbones.

“How would you know?” Scroogen challenged.

“I am Suquamish, the tribe of Chief Sealth for whom Seattle was named. My people hunted and fished this land long before the white man came.”

“So you found this beautiful and important symbol of early native American culture right here?” Octavia asked, the awe clearly in her voice.

“The rain last night must have washed some of the covering dirt away,” the foreman explained. “We only realized it was buried here when we arrived this morning and the jaws of the bulldozer started to lift it out of the mud. I withdrew the machinery immediately when I saw the carving.”

Brett moved around Scroogen to get a better look at the gray scars on the dark stone that stuck out of the mud. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a dozen or so seniors emerging from the community center and heading in the direction of the pit. He felt distinctly uneasy with this find and the crowd gathering to view it. And with the less-than-languid smile that played around Octavia’s lips.

“This place has nothing to do with Indians,” Scroogen protested, irritation making his tone even whinier than usual. “This was all farmland before those rinky-dink houses were put up after World War II.”

“Their foundations did not go very deep, Mr. Scroogen,” George said. “We have had to dig far deeper to accommodate the foundation for the condominium and underground parking structure. It is at this greater depth that this carved stone has been uncovered.”

The curious seniors arrived then and crowded behind Octavia and Mab Osborne, asking what was going on and trying to get a better look.

“Is that what the workmen dug up?” a voice suddenly asked from beside Brett. Brett looked over in surprise to see the young, eager eyes of a man with a reporter’s badge on the flap of his windbreaker and a 35-mm camera slung over his shoulder.

“Where did you come from?” Brett asked.

“I’m with the Bremerton newspaper. We got a call that you guys dug up some ancient Indian stuff.”

The reporter turned to the workman beside the stone. “What do those markings mean?”

“We do not know,” George said.

Brett tried to get the reporter’s attention. “Who called you and when?”

“We got an anonymous tip about thirty minutes ago.” The reporter turned back toward the foreman. “You the one who found this?”

“Yes. I’m the construction foreman, Keneth George.”

The reporter slung his camera around and started to take pictures. “Can you get rid of the rest of the dirt to see if there is more carving farther down the stone?”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Octavia said. “If this is a previously unknown site of early native American habitation, professionals need to be called in to excavate properly. It would be best to stop all work here immediately.”

“Yes,” the foreman said as he nodded toward Octavia. “As I told Mr. Scroogen when I phoned him, we must stop all work.”

“The hell you will,” Scroogen protested. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. This land has to be excavated and graded by next week. Dig that damn thing up and send it to whoever has to decide what it is.”

“That is not how the law works, Mr. Scroogen,” Octavia said. “Artifacts must be examined at the site of their unearthing by the proper authorities. There may be other precious native American objects buried here. I’m certain your attorney would not advise you to do anything against the law.”

She turned to Brett, that elusive smile just lifting the sides of her ample lips. Out of the corner of his eye, Brett could see the reporter stepping back to take a shot of the crowd.

“Isn’t that right, Mr. Merlin?” she asked.

“Only if it is a bona fide artifact,” Brett said, doubting it more and more by the second. From that smile on Octavia’s face and the way he had watched her orchestrating this little scene, Brett was certain that somehow she had to be behind this far too “coincidental” find and the call to the newspaper. He didn’t like this. Not at all.

“I will call in my tribe’s cultural expert,” George said.

“No, you won’t,” Scroogen protested. “I’m not stopping these bulldozers just because you’ve dug up some stupid stone.”

George’s face darkened perceptively. He scrambled up the sloping, five-foot-high muddy pit wall to stand before Scroogen.

“The stone must be examined,” George said, anger in his eyes and voice.

Brett stepped between the two men, hearing the click of the news reporter’s camera. If he didn’t take control of this situation now, it could quickly escalate beyond anyone’s control.

“Mr. George, I’m Brett Merlin, Mr. Scroogen’s attorney. Mr. Scroogen is merely skeptical about the authenticity of this stone carving, as am I. We’d both appreciate your calling your tribe’s professional archaeologist to settle the matter.”

“Mr. Merlin, I’m surprised you would suggest such a thing,” Octavia said. “Surely you know that is not the proper legal procedure in a case like this.”

“Oh?” Brett said, turning to her. “And what would you know of the proper legal procedure?”

“Mr. Scroogen must first report this find to the group issuing the building permit for this site—namely, Bremerton’s Community Development Department. They in turn will have to contact the state representative of the Archaeology and Historical Preservation Department in Olympia, who will then contact the professional archaeologists from the tribes so they can visit this site to do a thorough examination.”

She knew the proper legal procedure, all right. Too well. It was just as Brett had suspected from the first. She had to be behind this business.

He stepped closer and faced her squarely. “How do you know this?” he challenged.

“Because I’m a lawyer.”

She was a lawyer?

Brett watched the satisfied smile on Octavia’s face as she delivered that piece of unexpected news. He couldn’t be more surprised—or more annoyed—to realize how completely off-guard she had caught him.

But what irritated him most was that he knew she had expected the error. She knew he had not taken her threats seriously. She knew he had been misled and bamboozled by her beauty, just like probably every other poor sap who had met her. She knew it, and she had counted on it.

It seemed he had made a couple of very serious errors when it came to this lady. He gave himself a moment to regroup his thoughts before going on the offensive to save what he could from the situation.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he demanded. “Why have you hidden the fact that you are an attorney?”

A single eyebrow arched up her forehead. “You, Brett Merlin, accuse me of hiding the fact that I’m an attorney? You, who marched into my grandmother’s radio station yesterday and handed her a fallacious complaint you sent to the FCC without mentioning the fact that you were only doing it because you are a high-powered attorney hired by Scroogen to make trouble for her?”

She paused in her ultra-composed—and obviously rehearsed—indignation to turn to the reporter standing just beside her.

“You did get all that, didn’t you?” she asked sweetly.

“Every word,” he answered as he pointed at the tape recorder that had suddenly materialized in his hand. The young man then turned and shoved the mike into Brett’s face.

“Is what Ms. Osborne said true? Is your FCC complaint against Mab Osborne merely an attempt to make trouble for her?”

“Let’s not get off the subject here,” Brett said quickly. “We are at the future site of an exciting new condominium complex that will bring both jobs and prosperity to this community, a complex that could be delayed by the discovery of this stone carving. The question you should be asking is, who might be responsible for putting the carving on this stone?”

“Are you saying you don’t believe this is an Indian relic, Mr. Merlin?” the reporter asked, the inflection in his voice obviously hoping Brett would say just that.

“I’m saying that no one here is qualified to make such a determination,” Brett answered cautiously.

“Is the legal procedure that Ms. Osborne delineated accurate, as you understand it?” the reporter pressed.

“Only if this really is an ancient native American artifact,” Brett said.

Brett turned back to the foreman. “Mr. George, would you ask your tribe’s cultural representative to come over now? If he looks at the carving and says it isn’t early native American, it would be a quick and easy solution that would save a lot of time and needless involvement of others.”

“I’ll use the phone in my truck,” George said, and quickly made for his vehicle parked at the curb.

“This carving may originate with another tribe and, therefore, be beyond the expertise of a Suquamish cultural anthropologist,” Octavia said. “No, Mr. Merlin. Quick and easy will not suffice. This find must be reported and handled according to the prescribed law for its protection.”

Octavia then turned to the reporter. “You appear to be in on the beginning of what could be a major new native American find. This could make an excellent continuing story.”

Her words had the effect of redoubling the young man’s photographic efforts. With every picture the news reporter snapped, Brett watched Octavia’s smile grow.

“Stop this,” Scroogen yelled at the reporter, and then waved his arms at the seniors. “Get out of here. You’re trespassing. The rest of you construction workers, get back to work.”

“Wait, Dole,” Brett said, wondering if this wasn’t exactly what Octavia Osborne wanted Scroogen to do—right in front of a reporter.

“I can’t wait!” Scroogen protested.

Brett grabbed Dole’s arm and lowered his voice so the others couldn’t hear.

“Legally, you have to wait, Dole.”

“I’m under time-sensitive contracts to develop this land. If I renege on those contracts, I’ll be ruined!”

“Keep your voice down and slow down. A little delay will not ruin you, Dole, so save the dramatics. I very much doubt this so-called ancient carving is legitimate. Far more likely it is a contemporary artistic endeavor.”

Brett paused to look directly at Octavia, who was urging the reporter to take even more pictures.

He returned his attention to his recalcitrant client. “Look, Dole, you have no choice now but to report this as prescribed by law. But if what I suspect is true, it won’t take long before this supposed relic is relegated to the trash bin as a phony. At the most, it should only be a few days’ delay. A few days won’t jeopardize your schedule.”

“But—”

Brett poked Dole in the ribs before conveying the rest of his caution beneath his breath. “Would you rather someone serve you with a court order to cease and desist all your building operations, giving the media a chance to turn this so called ‘find’ and your construction site into a real sideshow?”

“That could happen?”

“I’ve no doubt that Octavia Osborne would see to it,” Brett said. “Dole, don’t you get it? This attorney wants you to screw up and turn this into a fight. That’s why she made sure that damn reporter is on hand. This has all been carefully orchestrated to cause you trouble.”

“I thought you told me less than an hour ago that Octavia Osborne couldn’t cause me any trouble?”

“Yes, well, I admit I underestimated the lady and the foolish lengths she’d go to. Still, she’ll find she’s caused more trouble for herself than you. Now, use the car phone to call the Community Development Department and report this ‘find.’”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Because you’re the developer. And because I’m going to be having a word with this reckless attorney and put the fear of God into her, so we don’t find ourselves facing any more of this kind of foolishness. Go, Dole. The sooner you make the call, the sooner we can put an end to this delay.”

As soon as Dole obediently, albeit reluctantly, turned toward the direction of the car, Brett turned toward Octavia. She stood in the middle of the seniors and the workmen and the reporter, jabbering confidently.

He could have understood her taking any legal avenue available to protect her grandmother’s interests. But not this flagrant disregard for the law.

Brett Merlin knew how to quell an unscrupulous adversary’s slams at his clients. He knew how to make such an unethical attorney quaver and crawl.

And he knew he was about to do all this to Octavia Osborne.

* * *

OCTAVIA DIDN’T HAVE to see Brett’s eyes to feel them. She wasn’t sure why this was so. She suspected it was because of the power behind those eyes, a power that was almost palpable.

He was coming at her from behind. She could feel the change in the air pressure, the spark along her skin, the rush of blood through her heart, the tingle in her fingertips, with every step that drew him closer.

At the precise second he came to a stop behind her, she cut short an answer to the reporter’s question and swung around to face him squarely. He was a man to be faced squarely.

“Yes?” she asked.

The sprinkle of light silver in the center of his black eyes had solidified into stone. She sensed his surface anger and something deeper and more dangerous—and much more difficult to control. The tingling in her fingertips increased.

“I want to talk to you,” Brett said. “Alone, please. This way.”

He bowed in the direction he wished her to go, and then simply waited with the stiff dignity of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed.

Men had made the mistake of trying to order Octavia around. One or two had even tried to take her arm to coerce her. None got a second chance to repeat either mistake.

But Octavia was rather fascinated by the approach Brett Merlin was using to get his way. There was such a polite refinement to it, such an outrageous self-assurance.

What a thoroughly annoying and exciting man. She could barely wait to find out what other emotions this man would engender in her.

But she controlled her curiosity, deliberately making Brett wait, while she turned back to the reporter to conclude their interview. Only then did she deign to accompany Brett to a point some twenty-five feet away from the crowd. She stopped when he did and turned to face him.

He folded his arms across his chest and scowled at her, like a judge about to give a three-time offender a life sentence. The cold anger that solidified the silver in his eyes could have frozen fire.

“You are in serious trouble, Ms. Osborne.”

His voice was rigid and stern. He stood before her so marvelously self-assured and self-important. Octavia’s laughter bubbled up from her throat and erupted into a short, spontaneous roar.

And all the while she laughed, she watched Brett Merlin’s countenance darken until it matched the blackened clouds hanging ominously in the heavy sky overhead.

“What’s so funny?” he asked in a voice that thundered as the silver in his eyes shot through with lightning.

“You are an interesting man, Mr. Merlin,” she said after she had finally gotten her merriment under control. “Your client’s building plans are about to be buried beneath an ancient Indian stone carving and you call me aside to tell me I’m in serious trouble?”

He stepped closer and towered over her—deliberately, she knew. She admired the calculated cunning of the move, almost as much as she admired the breadth of his broad shoulders. The guy was a big, imposing hunk who knew how to throw his weight around with class. She stared steadfastly into his incredibly alive quicksilver eyes.

“I’m going to have you investigated, Ms. Osborne. Thoroughly. Until I know about each and every breath you’ve taken since you were born. And when I connect you with that piece of fakery laying in that pit back there—and I will connect you with it—I am going to see that you are brought up on criminal charges and disbarred.”

Octavia could tell that Brett Merlin fully expected his awesome reputation, presence and words to effect fear and trepidation in her.

His unmitigated pomposity was absolutely magnificent. She put aside her admiration of it long enough to stand on her tiptoes, stretching tall until she was at eye level with him. She tossed her head back, waves of flaming-red hair falling off her cheeks.

“If you ever repeat those slanderous allegations to a third party, Mr. Magician, I will see to it that it is you, not I, who disappears from the legal scene in one highly publicized puff of courtroom smoke.”

She noted with enormous satisfaction the instant shifting of the silver light in his eyes. She sensed she was witnessing a very rare event. Brett Merlin, the deadly Magician of corporate law, reaching to pull a rabbit out of his hat only to find his hand grasping the ears of a tiger.

Octavia chuckled again, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

But the chuckle died in her throat the instant she heard the cry behind her. Startled, she swung in the direction of the outburst.

She was just in time to see her grandmother falling face-first into the excavation pit.