C.J. Carmichael - A Little Secret between Friends

He wished he could think of some polite way to make her stop cooking for him.

“How was your weekend, Judith?” He slid behind his desk, aligned the buttons on his jacket, then tapped on his keyboard. Sixty-five unread messages in his e-mail in-box. God only knows how many he’d find in voice mail.

“My weekend was quiet.” Judith always gave the same answer when he asked that question.

Colin suspected she was looking to him to change the situation. As with the casseroles, he wished he could think of some polite way to make her stop.

“I thought you might want to review the Mueller case. As you suspected, he does have a record of similar offenses.”

“Is the record in his file?” Colin opened the top one in a pile on his desk.

“Yes, I—”

“That should be all I need, then.” He slipped on the reading glasses he had only just begun to need and focused on the papers in front of him, barely registering the moment when Judith left the room.

I should have said thanks, at least. He felt guilty about that. But then, Judith had a way of making him feel guilty about a lot of things.

If it wasn’t for the cats, maybe things could have been different. She owned so many. He’d counted five on that one visit. Judith was attractive. Intelligent. Obviously available. She had nice legs, too.

Not as nice as Sally’s, but then Sally was a bit of a phenomenon in that area.

He’d wondered how far he would get into his day before he thought of her. But this wasn’t even the first time. Visions of her had been in his head when he woke up this morning. And she’d come to mind a couple times during the drive to work, as well.

She wasn’t telling him the truth about Friday night. He knew that for sure. He could have bought a burned hand. But a fall against the granite counter, too? No way. Not unless she’d had a seizure of some sort.

He drew a question mark on the pad of paper by his phone. Could that be it? Was Sally ill?

He hated that possibility. But it was an option he had to consider, although Neil’s pen on the otherwise spotless counter suggested a second scenario. Perhaps Sally and her ex had argued. Then what? Colin knew their divorce had been far from amicable, but he couldn’t picture the sophisticated and courteous Neil resorting to physical violence.

Had someone else been in the house, then? After Neil left? One of Sally’s client’s disgruntled husbands?

The buzzer on the phone intercom sounded, cutting into his conjectures. “Mr. Foster? It’s time for you to go to court.”

Hell. He hadn’t even finished reviewing the files. Colin gathered them into a stack, then shoved them into his briefcase, promising himself he’d follow up on Sally’s “accident” later.

DURING THE DRIVE HOME, Colin’s speculations focused on the possibility that Sally might have suffered a seizure of some sort. But if so, why not admit the truth to him? Was she worried that if news of her illness became known, it might get in the way of her judicial aspirations?

He’d heard the scuttlebutt and knew she was a favored contender for Justice Willa Kendal’s position on the Queen’s Bench. Willa had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s a few months ago and was officially retiring at the beginning of June.

Her replacement would be announced shortly after that date and Sally was high on the committee’s list of potential candidates for several reasons. First, she was a woman, and given the current composition of the courts, that was an important factor. Although she was young, Sally had had a distinguished career. Her integrity was unquestioned. Her politics fortuitously aligned with the current reigning powers.

Colin pulled into his garage, surprised to find himself home already. His stomach felt a little off, and it only took a minute for him to realize why.

I don’t want Sally to be sick.

She didn’t look unwell, but then neither had Beth, at least not in the beginning.

Colin was suddenly so weary he could hardly get out of his vehicle. As his gaze skimmed by the Miata, his conscience pricked. He’d promised himself he was going to start doing the things that needed to be done.

And he would. But later.

In the house, he went straight to the kitchen, to the fridge, to the line of aluminum cans that filled the space that had once contained real food like milk and juice and carefully labeled Tupperware containers of leftovers.

He snagged a beer, was about to close the fridge door, when he noticed the plastic container behind the dozen ale. He’d seen it a hundred times before, and done his best to ignore it, but this time he made the effort to reach deep into the cold cavern and pull it out.

Low-fat cherry yogurt. Beth’s favorite kind.

The container felt heavy. Through the opaque white plastic, he imagined he could see the green froth of mold. Holding the container at arm’s length, he carried it to the trash, then let it drop.

It fell right on top of the aluminum pan containing Judith’s casserole.

ON TUESDAY SALLY MET Justice Kendal for lunch at a small bistro down from the courthouse. The judge was sixty-eight, unmarried, sharp of mind and tongue. She carried her short, rotund body with authority, and stress lines marred a face that would still be considered pretty if not for her stern visage.

Even though they’d been on a first-name basis for years, Sally always felt a little intimidated in her presence, as though Willa were somehow a species above the rest of humanity.

As Willa lifted her fork to her mouth, though, her hand betrayed her all too mortal origins. While Sally had noticed the tremors for almost a year, they’d only recently been diagnosed as Parkinson’s disease.

“I hope you’ve been whittling down your client load, as I’ve advised you.” Willa spoke with her usual authority, as if completely unfazed by the fact that she could barely feed herself.

Sally would have liked to lean over the table and offer a steady hand. But she knew Willa would prefer if she pretended nothing was wrong. So she did not offer to help, instead forking a strand of pasta into her own mouth.

As she did so, Willa’s attention went to the discolored skin on Sally’s hand. Sally waited for her to ask what had happened.

I burned myself cooking on the weekend. That was what she’d told everyone else who’d inquired. And each time, she thought to herself, I’m going to have to do something about Neil. But so far, she’d taken no action. She hadn’t even had her door fixed, though she was more careful about keeping it locked.

But Willa didn’t ask about her hand. “Well? Are you making all the appropriate arrangements?”

Sally pushed the remaining pasta to a corner of her plate. “I’m working on it.”

“When you get the call from the justice minister, you are no longer allowed to work as an attorney.”

When you get the call. Not if. Willa had so much confidence in her. Sally hoped it was justified. And she had been doing her best to sort out her clients in the event that she was lucky enough to get the appointment. She’d spoken to a couple of her fellow lawyers about sharing the load.

But some clients were harder to hand over than others. Pamela Moore, for instance. She was more of a friend than a client. Though it went against her usual office policy of requiring an up-front retainer, Sally had never sent the woman a single bill. Who was going to take on a client like that?

Willa reached across the table to pat her hand. “You’re an excellent attorney, Sally, but not the only excellent attorney in the city.”

Sally allowed a smile. “I suppose that’s true.” She stared out the window and saw fresh raindrops splatter on the sidewalks and streets. The dreary spring weather matched her mood today.