Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery Read Free

Strutter’s garden, casually arranged in a
pewter vase on the corner of the desk.
    “Cheerful but
not too girlie,” May approved. “I can see why you like the coziness of
this space. The upstairs is very attractive, of course, but it’s just a bit
echo-y and intimidatin ’. This is much nicer.” She
reached for her coffee and took a greedy swig.
    I knew what she meant. The lobby
on the main floor of the building known as the Law Barn had once housed several
paralegals, as well as a receptionist and a comfortably furnished client
waiting area, during the real estate boom of the 1990s. The collapse of that
market in 2009 had forced the temporary closing of many local businesses,
including Mack Realty. We’d been fortunate to be able to reclaim a portion of
our old digs when the market improved a couple of years after that.
    “We’re probably another year from
being able to hire a receptionist,” I told May now, “but things are getting
better month by month. We’re hopeful. By the way, how are things coming along
with the renovations on your new place?”
    May put her empty mug on the side
table and passed one impeccably manicured hand over her forehead. “I’m sure
everything will be just lovely when it’s done, but my dear, the noise. I simply
had no idea. What with the hammers and saws and drills and what have you,
there’s not a moment’s peace. I don’t know what made me think I’d be able to
work in that racket, not to mention how distracting those good lookin ’ construction workers are,” she finished with a
wink.
    No question about it, I thought.
This woman is clearly Margo’s blood relative.
    “The truth is , that’s why I’ve come to see you today, to cast myself upon your mercy.” She
leaned forward, and I could see traces of fatigue around her eyes. “I must have
a place to work for a week or two until things settle down at my house. Margo
and her adorable hubby offered me their guest room, of course, but I think that
might be pushin ’ the limits of family affection to
the straining point. In any event, I don’t need a place to sleep. Those boys do
put down their noisemakers and go home by suppertime, thank heaven. It would
just be for a few hours during the day, and Margo mentioned you had an extra
room here somewhere.” She paused hopefully.
    For a moment I couldn’t think what
she meant. Then I remembered the small office next to the coffee-copier room on
the main floor. During the first year of Mack Realty’s existence, it had been
occupied by a chatty mortgage broker who’d spent most of her time on the phone.
A California native, she couldn’t adjust to our variable New England climate
and soon departed, leaving the office vacant. It wasn’t long before our files
containing the staggering amount of paperwork required for real estate
transactions spilled into the space. Neatly labeled cabinets now lined two
interior walls, and office supplies occupied shelves on part of the third, but
a desk and chair remained in the room, and a large window overlooked the Law
Barn’s tiny back lawn, taken up mostly by a comfortable pen for Margo’s devoted
Labrador Retriever, Rhett Butler. Not wanting to commit myself before talking
it over with my partners, I stalled for time.
    “What kind of work do you do?” I
inquired, wondering in what kind of cottage industry this genteel, mature woman
might be engaged. Rare book searches? Geneology research? “I don’t recall Margo saying specifically, just
that it involves a lot of computer work—but what doesn’t these days?”
    “I’m a writer, dear. Cozy mystery novels. I do the Ariadne Merriwether series, have for years. There are eleven
titles in the series now about an elderly snoop in a Florida retirement
community. Frankly, she’s kind of an annoyin ’
busybody, but for some reason, we old ladies seem to like readin ’
about other old ladies.” She laughed merrily and shrugged.
    I laughed along with her. “Well,
if they’re