Page 80 of A Dead End Wedding

"Fine. I'm going, I just—I just wanted to be sure she was okay." That darn twinge again. I didn't want to show any weakness to the wolf in black leather, here, but I was worriedabout the missing marbles of somebody who'd start a nail file fight in a bar and then fall sobbing to the floor. I abruptly whirled away from Jake and headed for the door, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm.

I looked back at him, ready to bite his head off, but the look on his face stopped me. The cynical baiting expression was gone, replaced by something that looked . . . sincere. "Hey. Thanks. That was a nice thing to do," he said.

Sincere Jake was even more dangerous than bad boy Jake, I discovered. At least to my vow of celibacy. I didn't know what to say, so went with my default flippant tone. "Fine. Just don't spread it around. You'll ruin my tough trial lawyer image."

Before he could say anything else, I yanked my arm out of his hand and headed for the door, reaching for it just as Max arrived with two coffees in hand. "What—" she said.

"We're out of here," I said. "Robin Hood arrived." Max nodded at Jake over my shoulder, eyes narrowing, then turned and went back out the door. I stopped for a moment and turned around. "In all seriousness, Jake, she needs to get help. If your girlfriend can't afford therapy, have her call my office, and we'll help her find a low or no-cost program. No charge."

Jake's eyes widened a little, but all he said was, "Thanks. But she's not my girlfriend."

I didn't ask. I didn't want to know.

Liar.

After Max dropped me off at my empty house, I remembered that I'd wanted to pick up a few essentials, like a pillow. I stuffed some of my clothes inside of an old, stretchy t-shirt and figured it would work. Surely my stuff would arrive soon, right? Just as I climbed into my sleeping bag, thinking dark thoughts about moving companies and wistful thoughts about air mattresses, I remembered to check the voice mail on my cell phone.

One new message: "Miss Vaygan? We have no news on your truck, but you'll be glad to know that the eighteen car pile-up on I-95 was not caused by your driver, as we'd thought. So your furniture is not in a smoldering heap of twisted metal on the side of the road, after all. Have a great day!"

9

Isplurged 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;twopairs 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.

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