“On a Sunday?” says Ceepak, sounding impressed.
“Indeed. The judge is an old friend. From law school. Harvard.”
Now the lawyer sounds impressed. With himself.
“Since this will might, I suspect, have some bearing on your current investigation into the manner of Dr. Rosen’s death, I think it only prudent to invite you, or your duly authorized representative, to join me and the other interested parties at my law offices this evening. Seven P.M. Will that be convenient?”
“Of course,” says Ceepak.
The law offices of Bernhardt, Hutchens, and Catherman are pretty swanky.
For one thing, the air conditioning doesn’t smell like recycled mildew. For another, the walls are made out of real wood, not that paneling they used to give away on TV game shows back in the 1960s, which was the last time most of the office buildings in Sea Haven were redecorated.
A very impressive executive assistant (who’s probably making double overtime for working at 7 P.M. on a Sunday and for wearing such a short but tasteful skirt) ushers Ceepak and me into an even more impressive conference room. The shiny wooden table in the center is bigger than most fishing boats. There are bottles of Fuji water and notepads in front of every seat. The water looks like it’s free, too.
Since we’re basically here as observers, Ceepak and I grab swivel chairs against the wall, leaving the padded table seats and free beverages for the family and other interested parties.
A few minutes later, an entire Agatha Christie novel walks into the conference room.
Michael, David, and Judith Rosen. Christine Lemonopolous and Monae Dunn. All our suspects (except the wild cards Joy Kochman and Revae Dunn) file in and find seats around the table, eager to hear the late Arnold Rosen’s last will and testament. Those rewrites he made recently? Tonight the mystery shall be revealed!
Michael and Monae sit on one side of the massive mahogany table directly across from David and Judith.
Meanwhile, Christine is seated on Michael’s side of the table but three chairs down, putting her at the greatest possible diagonal distance from Judith and David.
Christine shoots us a little finger wave when she sees Ceepak and me.
I wish she hadn’t.
Because Judith saw her do it.
She shoots me a very dirty look.
Then, she narrows her piglet eyes so tight I have to wonder if the plastic surgeons who gave her those liposuction treatments also implanted bionic laser beams inside her tiny eyeballs to give her death-ray super powers like in the comic books. If so, stand by to see my head explode.
Steven Robins, a dapper little lawyer in his sixties, enters the room. He’s dressed in a very nice gray suit, which is never anyone’s first wardrobe choice on a Sunday night in June. Everyone else around the table is wearing what I’ll call their Sunday schlub clothes. Lots of plaids, short-sleeved shirts, and frumpy pullovers.
Well, everybody except Michael. He seems to have packed the right outfit for every possible occasion. Tonight, it’s another black-on-black ensemble-a black polo shirt on top of black linen pants. It’s the kind of country club casual outfit you might wear to the golf course. If you were Zorro.
“Good evening, everyone,” says the lawyer. “Thank you all for coming here on such short notice.”
“Mr. Robins?” Judith shoots up her hand.