Magic? Any lawyer on Main Street could manipulate traffic court the way Simon had.

  The pho arrived with steam rising from the broth. Both inhaled the aroma as they picked up their spoons. They ate and talked about the usual topics, though Netty seemed less interested in his family. Perhaps she had realized that an introduction to them was not going to happen. Simon again feigned interest in her card club, her “poker club,” as the gals liked to call it. It met once a week for a gin rummy tournament at their various homes. They sipped sherry, ate chocolates, played gin rummy in teams and gambled a dollar a game, and sometimes watched a movie. It was great fun and she wished Simon would join them. Simon was almost asleep.

  For dessert, the cookies arrived on small plates with a side of warm honey for dipping. Netty loved them and asked the waitress to share the recipe. The mix was whole wheat flower, organic flour, chopped ginger, milk, and butter, and they were topped with sesame seeds and frosted brown sugar. They were crunchy and somewhat messy to eat, but no one cared about the crumbs. Netty ate four of them and chased them with a small cup of cà phê, an egg coffee with sweet condensed milk.

  The bill was almost eighty dollars. Simon got the check.

  Chapter 23

  The call came on his cell late on a Thursday night as he was watching a college basketball game, one of those pre-season sleepers where the home team pays good “road money” to a much weaker visiting team that usually gives up at least 90 points and scores half as many. He had no skin in the game and sorely missed his gambling days. It was from Eleanor’s cell so he took it immediately. “Mr. Latch?” an unknown male voice said.

  “This is Simon Latch. Who is this?”

  “Sergeant Pully, Braxton PD. I think we met once in court.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember.” Simon had never met the guy but it was always a good idea to humor the cops, especially when they were calling at odd hours. Something was up and it wasn’t good. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, there’s been an accident involving Eleanor Barnett. She’s in the hospital with some injuries, but they do not appear to be life-threatening. She asked me to call you, said you were in charge of her affairs.”

  They had never agreed that he would be in charge of her affairs, but as their relationship had evolved there was really no one else. And that was fine with Simon. “Yes, I am. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Well, sure, but she wants to see you. I’m at the hospital, so come on down and we’ll have a chat.” It was more of an order than a request.

  Twenty minutes later, they were standing outside the ER entrance because Pully needed a smoke. He was saying, “Ms. Barnett was driving and she had a passenger, Doris Platt. You know Ms. Platt?”

  “Sort of. We’ve actually never met.”

  “According to Ms. Platt, they went to a little Christmas party, a bunch of old ladies, and they played cards, gin rummy I think, and they had dinner and such, and they also hit the sherry pretty hard. They left, with Ms. Barnett behind the wheel.”

  “She’s not supposed to drive at night.”

  “With good reason. Not supposed to drink and drive either. Ms. Platt said she was all over the road, and they were yapping back and forth when they ran a red light on South Poplar and T-boned another car. The two people in that one are pretty banged up, but nothing fatal, or at least that’s the initial report.”

  “Oh boy,” Simon said, shaking his head.

  “Happened about two hours ago. All four came in by ambulance and I think they’re all stable. I had time to check Ms. Barnett’s record. Not good. She has three speeding tickets pending, one is reckless. Her insurance just canceled.”

  “Say what?”

  “Afraid so. Allstate notified the DMV on December the second.”

  Simon frowned and shook his head. The officer said, “I thought you were in charge of her affairs.”

  “Not all of them. She pays her own bills, or at least she’s supposed to. Are you certain this accident was her fault?”

  “We’re still at the scene investigating, but there were eyewitnesses who saw her run the red light. Plus, Doris Platt agrees with them.”

  “And she had no insurance.”

  “Apparently not. Plus, it looks like she was drinking.”

  “She doesn’t drink.”

  “Well, she did tonight. Doris confirms it.”

  Doris needs to shut up, Simon thought but held his tongue.

  Pully said, “She gave us a blood sample. Waiting on results.”

  “You took a blood sample?”

  “Yep, she consented, in writing.”

  “Did she know what she was signing?”

  “Yep. Two nurses witnessed it, both said she was lucid.”

  “Did she ever lose consciousness?”

  “I don’t think so, but, again, I wasn’t there. Her left leg is pretty banged up, not sure about the X-rays. They’re still looking her over.” Pully frowned and listened to his earphone. “I need to go check something. Why don’t you hang out in the waiting room and I’ll be back in a minute?”

  Simon hadn’t smoked since college, but he bummed a cigarette off Pully and said he would stay outside. An hour later, the cop was back. He fired up another and said, “Preliminary blood work shows point-zero-nine. Over the limit. They just moved her to a private room and the doc says you can say hello. She’s really upset and wants to talk to you.”

  “Is she still drunk?”

  Pully found that funny and laughed. “Probably got a pretty good buzz. Let’s go. I’ll take you up there.”

  * * *

  It was almost midnight when Simon entered the room. Two nurses were fiddling with tubes and checking monitors. Half her forehead was covered with a large gauzy bandage. Her left leg was wrapped in cotton. Her eyes were closed.

  Simon could think of nothing else to say so he asked, “Uh, how’s she doing?”

  One nurse said, “She’s been better. Two broken ribs on the left side. Some cuts, plenty of bruises. Her left knee took a hard blow. She’s going to be sore for some time.”

  Eleanor opened her eyes and saw Simon. She stuck out her right arm. Two tubes dangled from it. He gently squeezed her fingers and said, “Hello Netty. I’m so sorry about this.”

  “So am I,” she said, barely audible. “Have you seen Doris?”

  He shook his head. A nurse said, “She’s down the hall.”

  The other nurse said, “We’re injecting morphine for the pain, so she’ll probably slip away for some time. Are you hurting, Ms. Barnett?”

  She closed her eyes and said, “A little, I guess. Please stay, Simon.”

  The thought of spending the night had not crossed his mind and he was suddenly on his heels. A nurse nodded to the only chair in the tiny room and said, “That one reclines. Folks use it all the time.”

  Simon glared at it. A weird creation designed to ruin lower lumbars.

  Pully was listening to his earphone again and said, “Gotta run. I’ll be back tomorrow to take a statement from Ms. Barnett.”

  Simon almost blurted, She’s not making any more statements to the police, but he let it pass. He would deal with the legal issues tomorrow. He watched a nurse inject the knockout juice into an IV. She smiled at Simon and mouthed the words, She’ll fade away.

  The other nurse said, “Make yourself at home.” Both nurses left the room and Simon was suddenly alone with his client. He stood near the door for a long time and tried to absorb the surreal image before him. She looked so tiny and frail in the bed, with a thin white sheet pulled up to her neck, head turned to her left, with a small tube running into one nostril.

  How did this person, this nice old lady he met for the first time only nine months earlier, enter his life in such a dramatic fashion? How had she lived for eighty-five fairly comfortable years and reached this point where she had no one to care for her but him? No family, no close friends except for Doris, who she had just practically killed.

  He would admit, and only to himself, that greed was the driving force. Months earlier he could have done what she asked him to do, prepare a simple will for $250 and close the matter. And that’s exactly what would have happened if she had no money. Matilda would have filed her will away with hundreds of others and forgotten about it.

  However, the client was certainly not poor and appeared to be quite vulnerable. His otherwise good judgment was corrupted by greed. He saw an easy way to take control of her money, a fortune that was wonderfully hidden from everyone. Under his clever control, it would remain a delightful secret.

  He glanced at a digital clock in one corner of a monitor above her head. The green digits read 12:42.

  He analyzed the chair and devised a maneuver to get himself into it without rupturing a disc. Once situated, he managed to lean back with his head resting on a wall. He studied the outline of her shrunken frame under the sheets. He listened to the soft, steady, obnoxious beating of a machine monitoring something. He heard the sounds of the nurses and orderlies shuffling along the hallway. And he wondered how any visitor could be expected to sleep in a hospital. The patients were drugged.

  He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply.

  There were so many issues to fret over. His dear Netty was about to face criminal charges for drunk driving. She was about to be sued by the folks she injured in the wreck. The lawsuit would allow the opposing lawyers to pry into her finances. The criminal charges and lawsuits would be public record.

  The more Simon thought, the more problems arose. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock: 12:46.

  Gently, he wiggled out of the chair and left the room. He took the stairs down two flights to the ground floor where he followed the signs to the cafeteria. All three of his children had been born in the hospital, but that was before it had been renovated several times. There were new wings and corridors with every visit. The cafeteria was closed, thus forcing him to buy coffee from a machine. He walked outside the building, took one sip, and poured out the rest.

  He was contemplating an escape. Eleanor was knocked out and would sleep for hours. Why shouldn’t he do the same? He could hustle back to The Closet, sleep until 6 A.M., then shower and return to the hospital. There was no benefit in babysitting a woman who was in another world.

  Chapter 24

  There were a couple of lawyers in town who were known to hang around hospital emergency rooms and hallways waiting to pounce on the families of people injured in car wrecks or on the job. They were throwbacks to an earlier time before the deluge of TV and billboard advertising, back when “ambulance chasing” was frowned upon. They monitored police scanners and bribed tow-truck drivers and used a dozen other tricks to land clients. Simon knew them well and was determined to keep them away from Eleanor, though it would soon be known that she was likely to be a defendant and not a plaintiff.

  He returned to the hospital at 7 A.M. and found her still sound asleep. He set up camp beside her bed with the morning papers and a tall cup of coffee, as if he’d been there all night. He coughed and rattled the papers and tried to make as much noise as possible. Eventually, Netty roused herself and opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of her bed and asked how she felt. She wasn’t sure. A doctor popped in and did a cursory exam of her bandages. After he left, Simon asked, “Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, thanks. It’s so good to see you here, Simon.”

  Wouldn’t miss it for the world. “How about some coffee?”

  “No, but some water would be good.”

  He fetched her some in a plastic cup and thought about asking, How’s your hangover?

  She sipped through a straw and asked, “Where is Doris?”

  “Down the hall. She’s okay. Seems as though she was wearing a seat belt. And you were not.”

  “Oh my. I really don’t remember much.”

  “You took a blow to the head, got some stitches, a couple of broken ribs.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  He patted her arm and said, “It’s a long story, and not a good one.”

  * * *

  He left a few minutes after nine, and on the way out had a chat with the charge nurse, Loretta Goodwin. Ms. Barnett was not to be questioned by the police or anyone else, and please watch out for other lawyers, insurance adjusters, and the like. Loretta agreed while rolling her eyes. She’d seen it all.

  At the office, he briefed Matilda and asked her to hold his calls. He closed his door, stretched out on the sofa, and tried to arrange his thoughts. Eleanor would likely be in the hospital for a few days, a golden opportunity for him to dig deeper into her financial affairs and make himself indispensable. He could petition the court to establish a conservatorship to handle her bills and such, and in doing so have access to virtually everything. The downside was the notoriety. Any court filing would be a public record, and there was no shortage of snoops in the courthouse. So far, in the nine months or so that he had represented her, he had been able to keep his name away from hers. That would all change when she died and he probated her will, but for the moment he wanted the anonymity.

  He had just dozed off when Matilda rapped on his door. Without waiting, she barged in with a panicked look. As Simon was scrambling to his feet, she said, “There are two guys here in dark suits. FBI, badges and all. Pretty serious dudes.”

  “What have you done now?”

  “Me? Sorry, boss, they want to see you.”

  “Send ’em in.”

  Simon took some deep breaths, tried to relax his face, forced a smile, and met them at the door. Just another exciting day in the life of a small-town lawyer.

  Since all FBI agents are special, they introduced themselves as Special Agent Perez and Special Agent Underwood. They wore matching suits and shirts, but their ties were different shades of blue. They sat in chairs at the big desk with Simon on the other side, perched on his executive swivel throne. He showed them his cell phone, pressed a key, and said, “Just for fun, I’ll record whatever we are about to say.” They shrugged in unison.

  After an awkward attempt to catch up on the weather, Simon cut to the chase and asked, “So what’s up, guys?”

  Underwood appeared to be slightly older, maybe twenty-nine or thirty, and he was in charge. He obviously had more experience with bluster and bravado. “So, you see much of Hubert Nelson these days?”

  Simon was perplexed and couldn’t respond.

  “Also goes by ‘Chub.’ Owns a few bars in the area.”

  “Sorry, I’ve never thought about Chub having a proper name. I’ve known him for fifteen years and never heard him called Hubert. Plenty of other names, though.” Simon thought that last comment was slightly humorous but they did not. “What’s Chub done now?”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out,” Underwood said. “The investigation centers around illegal gambling. Our sources tell us that Chub is actively involved. You know anything about that?”

  “Well, gentlemen, here are the rules. If I’m a suspect in any crime, then I’m not chatting with you without my lawyer present. Plain and simple.”

  “Didn’t ask about you. What about Chub? You ever bet the games in his sports book?”

  “If I did, that would be a crime. So if you’re asking me if I’ve committed a crime, then, again, you’ll have to come back when my lawyer is here.”

  They stood in unison. Underwood tossed a business card onto the desk and said, “Thanks, we’ll be in touch.”

  Simon didn’t move as they opened the door and left. He heard them speak to Matilda and leave through the front door. He took deep breaths and tried to reduce his heart rate. He kicked back and put his feet on the desk, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He also put together an excuse for Tillie, who would arrive any moment.

  “What was that all about?” she asked, standing in the door.

  “Have a seat.” His version of the story was that the Feds were investigating Chub’s alleged gambling operation. Since his separation from Paula, Simon was spending more time in Chub’s and making small bets on games. Nothing serious. He won more than he lost, and so on. All his buddies played the games. The Feds were just tracking down leads.

  She said, “I go to Yesterday’s occasionally. It’s a nice bar.”

  Yesterday’s was Chub’s only effort at a legitimate club and attracted singles and young marrieds.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” Simon said as his stomach flipped. “You’d think they have more important crimes to worry about.”

  “Is gambling still a crime?”

  “Depends on how you do it. But, don’t worry. It’s nothing.”

  She closed the door when she left and Simon stretched out on the sofa. Where the hell was Landy? Hadn’t she practically guaranteed him he was not a target? After another round of deep breathing, he decided that the visit was nothing but a routine check-in-the-box by a couple of rookies who had to report something to their supervisor. He still refused to believe he could possibly face criminal charges for betting on games. He also knew that the rampant popularity of sports gambling did not make it legal, but why would the Feds choose Chub out of thousands of local bookies? And why would they choose Simon out of millions of casual bettors?

  He simply refused to believe he was in trouble.

  He snapped out of it, went to his desk, called Tillie and told her to order flowers for Eleanor Barnett, Room 328, Blue Ridge Memorial Hospital.

  * * *

  During lunch, Simon returned to the hospital, and as he parked he wondered how many times he would be doing the same thing over the next week or two. Hospitals were such depressing places.

  He tapped her door as he shoved it open and softly said, “Anybody home?”