Page 32

I splurged on donuts on the way to the office, figuring my all-fiber-bran-woodchip cereal would have to wait until I had a bowl to put it in. It was only eight-thirty in the morning, but the heat was killing me, so I ordered Diet Coke instead of coffee at the drive-through. At seven, it'd already been hot and muggy enough to steam up my sunglasses when I walked outside for the newspaper. Maybe I should have waited and moved to Florida in the winter, so I could ease myself into the heat and humidity.

"Woulda shoulda coulda," I muttered, as I pulled into my parking place at the office. "Hindsight and blah, blah, blah."

Resolving to think cool thoughts, I balanced the box of donuts on top of my briefcase and walked into the office. Three pairs of eyes stared at me; two pairs of eyes immediately dropped their gazes to the donuts.

"Ah, we must have a new client," I said, smiling, as I walked to the reception desk. Max rescued the box of donuts from me, and then held them up high as Mr. Ellison immediately dove for them.

"Mr. Ellison, would you like to offer Mrs. Zivkovich a donut?" Max asked him through her clenched teeth.

Mr. Ellison's scowl turned into a beaming smile as he turned to look at the elegant woman sitting in our small reception area on the couch Max had recovered in what she called "celery." "Mrs. Z? Would you like a donut to go with that coffee?" he asked in a weird, syrupy voice that sent a squicky feeling down my neck.

It was the same squick as the "bazumbas" conversation.

Mrs. Zivkovich looked to be in her early sixties. Her pale-blue pantsuit matched her pale-blue-tinted gray hair. She either wore makeup all the time—even in this heat — or had carefully applied it for our meeting. She shuddered delicately and shook her head. "No, I'm watching my carbs. Ever since Marge Diedenshour had that bleeding ulcer—and, you know, she was a donut eater—I stay far away from those things."

Mr. Ellison leaned against the counter, nodding. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Sandy down t'the Eagles got one of them, too. He had rectal bleeding, doncha know. Blood shot right out of him in the john during the Memorial Day barbecue. We had the E squad and everything."

I looked at the jelly donut I'd just grabbed and felt my lips curl back away from my teeth. I'd always had a teensy problem with the sight (or even mention) of blood, anyway. Max held up her hand. "Trash?"

"Trash," I agreed, handing it over. "Did I have an appointment?" I whispered.

Max shook her head. "No, she's a walk in. Says she's a friend of Celia's, and she has a pest problem," she said in a low tone.

I turned back to Mrs. Zivkovich, shooting a glare at Mr. Ellison as I did, and smiled again. "Oh, you know my Aunt Celia? That's wonderful. Please come on back and let's talk."

As Mr. Ellison pushed off of the counter, I whipped my head around to give him my "don't even think about it," glare. "Don't even think about it, buster," I hissed, in case he couldn't read glare language. "And keep the rectal bleeding discussions for your . . . personal discussions. It's disgusting and not really appropriate for a law firm, don't you think?"

He blinked a few times, then looked at Max. "Oh, yummy! Jelly donuts!"

Max stared at me in disbelief as Mr. Ellison snagged two of the donuts and then sidled off down the hallway, blocking Mrs. Zivkovich's view of his death-dealing carbs. Max closed her eyes and took a deep breath, probably calling on her old pageant days for patience in the face of annoyance.

I led my new client toward my office.

After Mrs. Zivkovich settled herself in a chair, declined coffee, and smoothed her hair away from her face, she finally talked. "I have this pest problem."

I waited patiently, pretty sure she didn't mean fire ants.

Her fingers worked at the clasp on her handbag. "It's . . . it's my son-in-law. He wants me to sign everything over to him. Some kind of power of eternity. He says I'm too old to make my own decisions, if you can believe that. And me only seventy-two!" She glared at me, indignation all over her too-young-looking-to-be-seventy-two face.

"Wow!" I said, staring at her.

"Wow? What do you mean, wow?" she snapped, leaning forward in her chair.

I laughed and shook my head. "I'm sorry, I just meant Wow, I hope I look as great as you do at seventy-two. I was thinking sixty, tops."

She relaxed back into her chair, smiling, her cheeks tinting a pale rose. "Why, that's very sweet of you, young lady. Celia said you had a sharp legal mind, but she didn't mention that you were a sweetheart and a flatterer."

"No flattery, I assure you. But back to your pest problem. Does your son-in-law—and what's his name?" I asked, pulling out a pad of paper.

"Nervil. He likes for people to call him Croc, though, if you can believe someone would want to be named after a giant reptile," she said, sniffing.

"Well, at least it's better than Nervil, I guess. Let's figure out what you can do about him, and you certainly don't need to sign any power of attorney over to him. What does your daughter say about all this?"

Her face darkened. "I think he might be threatening her. She was my miracle baby—I had her when I was forty-four years old—and so she's very young. They have a baby, too. So she's trying to stay out of it for now."

My eyes narrowed. I hated wife abusers with an enormous purple passion. If Croc was threatening his wife, things were going to get ugly.

Really ugly.

"Okay, let's figure out some options for you. Don't worry about a thing. You did the right thing to come to me. Be sure and call me if you have any problems with him, all right? And call the police if he threatens you or your daughter or grandbaby. Some bullies will back down at the first sign of police involvement."

She nodded and smiled a little, fluttering fingers finally calming from her compulsive fidgeting and resting in her lap.

"Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Zivkovich. I'm so pleased to be able to help you."

A s I walked Mrs. Zivkovich out to reception to fill out our new-client form with Max, it hit me just how much I really was pleased to help. Not only that, but it was a relatively simple fix. Not like the corporate cases I'd spent my entire waking life for the past several years working. Those cases usually took years and years to resolve.

This one might be over with a phone call.

Not so great for the billable hours, but pretty fantastic for the sense of accomplishment.

Life is good.

"Life is good, girlie."

I jumped. "Don't sneak up on me, Mr. Ellison! And why are you reading my mind—er, I mean, what do you mean, life is good?"

He nodded at Mrs. Zivkovich where she stood chatting with Max. "If we keep picking up hot numbers like that for clients, I might have to make this job permanent."

I rolled my eyes. "No hitting on the clients, Mr. Ellison. It's on page seven of the employee manual." I turned and strode down the hall back to my office.

"I didn't get no employee manual, girl—December," he called out after me.

"I didn't write one yet," I muttered. "But that rule is definitely going to be in it."

A few hours later, as I waded my way through scientific studies of the mechanism of insulin and wondered how much money expert witnesses were going to run me in Charlie Deaver's case, the phone rang. Inside line.

"Hey, Max. What's up?"

"I forgot to mention this earlier, but when you were meeting with Mrs. Zivkovich, I got the weirdest call about you." She sounded worried, which was totally unlike Max.

"What do you mean, weird?"

"Well, the guy said he was from the Ohio Bar Association, and wanted to confirm your Ohio bar number and your new address. But since when do they make phone calls for stuff like that?"

I shrugged, already back to scanning the data on the FDA's role in regulating insulin. "I don't know. Maybe some new intern is all eager-beaver or something. Did you eat lunch yet?"

She laughed. "Let me guess, that translates into 'will you go get us some food,' right?"

"You know me too well. How about a big salad? Grilled chicken, if you can find one?"

"Back in a flash," she said, and hung up.

I heard footsteps and looked up to see Mr. Ellison shuffling his feet in my doorway. "Yes? Are you going to lunch? Done for the day, maybe?"

A girl could hope.

"Yeah, no, uh, I'm leaving soon. About that employee manual and the no-dating-clients rule. Does that apply to everybody or just me? 'Cause that sounds like discrimination against senior citizens to me, if you just made it up about me," he said, jamming his hands in his pockets and puffing out his scrawny chest. He looked like a sparrow on steroids.

If sparrows ever wore sandals with black kneesocks and baggy shorts.

I clenched my teeth to try to hold in the laugh, then slowly released a breath. Calm restored, I answered him. "Yes, it applies to everyone. Clients need to feel completely comfortable here, not worried that we're going to maybe take advantage of them. Does that make sense?"

His balding head turned bright red, and I wondered if we should put a defibrillator machine on the office supply shopping list. "Look here. I would never think of taking advantage of an elegant lady like that. Sounds like this rodent son-in-law of hers is the one trying to take advantage. He better never run afoul of me, or I'll show him what for."

"How did you – were you eavesdropping on my client conference? Mr. Ellison, you really shouldn't?—"

"I can't help it if you talk really loud, and I just happened to be standing in the exact part of the file room where the insulation is bad, and I could hear everything you said through the wall," he said, not quite meeting my gaze.

I stared at his red, pink, and green shirt, wondering for the third time that day where he'd found a store that carried plaid shirts with giant embroidered flamingos on them. "Look, I appreciate your concern for Mrs. Zivkovich. I really do. But?—"

He interrupted me. Again. "What do you call fifty lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?"

"And definitely no lawyer jokes! Page ONE of the employee manual!" I shouted.

He snickered. " A good start . Catch ya later, girlie."

As he sauntered off down the hall, I dropped my head in my hands. I have to fire that man.

Tomorrow. I'm definitely firing him tomorrow.

My phone rang again. Outside line. "December Vaughn."

An unpleasantly familiar voice rang through the line. "Addison Langley here. I don't like dealing with amateurs, and I've had enough of you already."

Okay, so certain lawyers at the bottom of the ocean would be a good start.