Bitter Business

Hooker trust. I figured it might be worth looking into as long as Elliott was poking around Thomas County—especially since it was me and not Jack Cavanaugh who was paying for the trip. As I handed him the document Elliott surprised me by leaning over toward me in the front seat as I said good-bye. I thought he meant to kiss me and I drew back in confusion. But he stopped just short and gently smelled the perfume on my neck.
    “Very nice,” he said quietly. Before I could reply he was gone.
     
    I went home to an empty apartment. I was too nervous to sleep and too anxious to settle down to work. My mind kept on straying to Elliott Abelman and what it was that he might find in Georgia. Finally, I forced myself to go to bed and spent the night restlessly sorting and resorting the little I knew about the circumstances leading up to the deaths of Cecilia Dobson and Dagny Cavanaugh. At some point I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up at half past nine, numb and exhausted. Feeling horrible, I dragged myself into the office.
    It wasn’t until I arrived at Callahan that I realized that it was Friday—the day Stephen would be returning from Geneva and expecting an answer about the apartment. Cursing myself for cowardice—I had neither the stomach for hurting him by saying no nor the conviction to say yes—I took refuge in petty anger at him for having put me in the position of having to make any decision at all.
    Arriving at my desk, I peevishly picked up the vase of roses that Stephen had sent me, marched them down the hall, and gave them to Madeline to brighten up her day. What depths I’ve sunk to, I remembered thinking to myself, that I was feeling pressured by a bouquet of flowers.
    This exorcism complete, I was able to turn my attention to the last few odds and ends on the Frostman Refrigeration file. I also had several long conversations with the investment bankers at Goodman Peabody about the correct depreciation of Superior Plating’s equipment as it related to the valuation of the company. When Cheryl buzzed to say that Philip Cavanaugh was on the phone, I was surprised. He was the last person I expected to hear from.
    “I thought you were at Tall Pines,” I said, picking up the phone.
    “We are,” he replied. “Dad sent us down here the same way he used to send us to our rooms.”
    “So what can I do for you?” I asked, worried that Nursey had called Philip to complain about the private detective snooping around her.
    “The company plane is fueled up and waiting for you at Meig’s Field. I want you to fly down.”
    “Why?”
    “We need a lawyer.”
     
    Darlene met me at the door of Jack Cavanaugh’s house at Tall Pines in a ruffled apron, a wooden spoon in one hand. She looked disgusted.
    “They’re waiting for you in there,” she said. I didn’t need to ask where. I just followed the sound of angry voices into the living room.
    It was obvious that Philip, Eugene, and Lydia had been arguing for hours. From their rumpled clothes and red-rimmed eyes, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been at it all night. They were surly and sick of each other, clearly having reached the point in their debate where the sight of a new face, even mine, was a relief.
    “Oh look, if it isn’t the fucking cavalry,” announced Lydia. She was still dressed in her arty, person-in-black wardrobe, which looked even more incongruous in Georgia than my plane-rumpled navy suit.
    “So what’s going on?” I asked, sitting down on the couch and laying my briefcase on the coffee table in front of me in the manner of lawyers the world over. “Have you reached some kind of agreement?”
    “We have,” Eugene announced.
    “We may have,” hedged Philip.
    “You know what your problem is, Eugene?” Lydia demanded, as if addressing a child. “You think everything in the world is black and white. This is a very complicated financial transaction we’re talking about. I don’t expect you to understand it completely, but I do think you have to accept that there are subtleties to be considered.” There was no mistaking the put-down in her voice. I couldn’t help thinking that whoever killed Dagny Cavanaugh had murdered the wrong sister.
    “What financial transaction are we talking about?” I prompted.
    “We’ve agreed—” Philip began, but Lydia immediately cut him off.
    “In theory!” she snapped. “We’ve agreed in theory. I don’t know about you, but I’m still a long way from signing