Chapter 11
The cutest lady had a combative day in court.
One of her clients showed up to a hearing drunk, the underage daughter of a wealthy couple who blamed Ronnie for the intoxication, and Judge Gray, a longtime detractor of Ronnie, reprimanded her in front of the bailiffs and opposing counsel.
Ronnie met Gray afterward in the hallway behind the courtroom and their shouting could be heard all the way to the jailhouse—I knew because a deputy sheriff texted me.
Gray threatened to refer Ronnie to the state bar for disciplinary action.
Ronnie threatened to file a judicial misconduct complaint, and ended the tussle by muttering, “And for fuck’s sake, Sue, brush your teeth once in a while. ”
The bailiffs each paid her five bucks for that, because they’d had a pool going about mentioning Gray’s bad hygiene, but none of them had been courageous yet.
She requested I take her out for dinner, Ronnie, not Judge Gray, and I obliged, driving her to Fortunato, a modern Italian place that held itself in high regard.
Mostly deserved. Warm lighting, murmuring, candles, the tables close together like in Europe where personal space was rubbish, highly competent cocktails.
We were walked to a corner spot at the window, and Ronnie ordered an Aperol spritz to start and I had a stinger, which was spicy and bourbon forward and hell yes.
“Want to talk about your day?”
She shook her head. “Thank you. Anything but. I’m a woman now, not an attorney, a woman who wants to buy dinner for her handsome date.”
She dressed flirty—tight jeans and a white sheer floral long-sleeve top.
Her bright eyes caught the vibrancy of the white in her shirt and the blonde in her hair, each shine increasing the other, and our corner filled with her natural luminescence.
Hidden beneath the sheer shirt’s lacy flowers, her skin and curves were visible and it looked like she wore nothing beneath but I wasn’t positive and neither was our waiter, though we both gave it our best inspection.
Her hair was half back and she wore little diamond stud earrings.
I wore jeans and a sweater with a hood; a Beauty and the Beast situation.
“I don’t think,” I said, “our waiter speaks Italian. Even though this is supposedly an authentic Italian place.”
“I represented a Chinese restaurant last month,” said Ronnie. “The owner told me that none of her employees are Chinese. She hires Vietnamese and Koreans and even Hispanics, because us White people assume they’re Chinese and that mollifies us.”
“You defended her against what tort?”
“Discrimination,” said Ronnie.
“But she hires minorities.”
“She employed one White woman. The White woman is the one who filed suit. She’s gay and claims she was fired because of it.”
“Was she?” I asked.
“The Chinese owner is a serious woman who told her female employees that the world isn’t producing enough babies and they needed to hop to it. Marry a man and make children who are industrious and respectful.”
“Egads. How heinous.”
Ronnie smiled and shrugged one shoulder and the fabric of her shirt shifted across her skin, enough so another inspection was warranted.
“Our country is in a rush to be a victim. If you can’t be one, you can champion other victims and earn honor that way.
Lawsuits abound and lawyers get rich. I hate it. But it pays for cocktails.”
“We forgot—you’re a woman, not an attorney.”
“I’m the wife… kinda the wife of a darling husband who got his head kicked in by prisoners.” She took my hand in both hers. “Mackenzie. I’m sorry that happened to you. Especially because your face is my favorite face. Did it bring back memories of Italy cage fights?”
“It reminded of my few days in Roanoke City Jail more than the Italy cages. Speaking of, don’t you speak Italian?”
“Poorly.” She wrinkled her nose. “For a while, it was necessary. Now I couldn’t order a water. Use it or lose it. My how we’ve changed.”
“For the better.”
“Oh yes. Without you, I would’ve hanged myself by now,” she said.
“Nah.”
“I would’ve. Engaged to that sonofabitch Darren? Trapped by my father? Blah,” she said. “I hated my life. Till I met you.”
“Till you picked me up in that bar.”
“Blue 5. And Mackenzie you picked me up,” she said.
“I was watching baseball. You kept talking so I told you to hush.”
“You called yourself my knight in shining armor,” she said.
“Yikes.”
“I thought so too, but you looked like a man fresh from hell. Still sweaty after a boxing match. How could I not fall in love?”
“Doesn’t feel that long ago,” I said.
“And yet. It was an entire other universe. From death to life,” she said. “I still watch your lips move while you speak.”
The waiter came for our orders. Ronnie tried it in Italian and the Caucasian waiter who was probably from Vinton heard enough things he recognized on the menu that they made it work, both laughing, and by the end he was ready to push her hair back from her eyes and fall on a sword if she asked him.
She’d ordered us salumi, formaggi, pork Milanese, and a roasted branzino.
Maybe, who knew. Plus a bottle of Sangiovese.
“So.” She laced her fingers and rested her chin on the top of them, elbows on the table. “Tell me what hard-won information you discovered on Emile.”
“Her real name is Emile Cardot. Her mother Madeleine and brother Theo are still living. Her mother’s in southern Ohio.”
“Emile and Madeleine and Theo Cardot. How thoroughly French,” she said.
“Emile had a slight accent that I guessed was French.”
“I detected it as well. Do you have contact information for Madeleine?”
“I have an address but no phone number. Based on the map, the mother is living in Amish Country,” I said.
She leaned back from the table and gazed thoughtfully at the remaining bubbles in her spritz. “Emile didn’t strike me as Amish.”
“The Incredible Hulk is more Amish than Emile was. But I can’t find out anything else without knocking on doors. Online, they’re a mystery, immigrants from France.”
The waiter came with the bottle of wine.
He made a show of opening it correctly—label toward us, the cork softly popped and offered to us, one purple ounce delicately urged into a glass for our approval—but Ronnie didn’t notice his hard work.
She was far away. I told him the wine was good and he left, unsatisfied.
“Hearing Emile’s mother’s name,” said Ronnie, “is painful. Madeleine Cardot lost her daughter and never knew what happened.”
“Likely not.”
“What else?”
“Her husband Duane was a construction racketeer, shaking down contractors and rigging bids. He also trafficked labor and women. Not popular with anyone I spoke to, including his former partner Remi, who seemed happy to have Duane’s death confirmed.
Emile took money from Remi in exchange for sex, behind her husband’s back.
With her real name, I could find out a lot more, where she went to school, ex-boyfriends, former residences, but it would take digging and might not be beneficial for you and your end goal. ”
She nodded, some of her brightness dimmed. I poured wine into both our glasses. Our food soon came.
Salumi, it turned out, was a tray of meat slices, which paired nicely with the formaggi, which was cheese.
We sampled them with our forks, instead of hands, and I didn’t know if that was correct.
The Milanese was cuts of pork, pounded and breaded and fried.
Both crispy and juicy and hell yes. We shared it, along with the branzino, a fish that was tender and flaky and buttery, eyeballs intact.
We ate and drank, the flavors richer in each other’s company, and Ronnie’s spirits returned.
“Speaking of sex behind your partner’s back,” I said. “The school’s new receptionist at Kix’s school—”
“Mrs. Armstrong.”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Armstrong the gossipy, backstabbing wench?”
“The very one,” I said. “She says she adores you and envies your abs, but I suspected derision.”
“She is a grimalkin.”
“Wow.”
“See? I listen to your words. Some of them I write down,” said Ronnie, pleased. “What about Mrs. Armstrong?”
“She and some of the teachers suspect Mrs. Buchanan’s husband is leading a double life. Cheating. He’s gone often, she says.”
One of Ronnie’s eyebrows rose as she speared more fish with her fork. “He’s far better looking than her. But that’s not necessarily indicative of infidelity. Did Mrs. Armstrong attempt to hire you?”
“She did.”
“You dislike cheating-spouse work,” said Ronnie.
“I usually turn it down.”
“Did Mrs. Armstrong attempt to sway you with her breasts?”
“Not explicitly,” I said.
“Aren’t they fascinating? I can’t decide if they’re authentic. I may subpoena her medical records. For her age, she’s sexy as get out.”
“What is her age?”
Ronnie raised her hands, like—who knows. Her right hand held her fork. “Forty-five? Eighty? Tiny waist, no wrinkles, great dresser, ugh, I hate her. Maybe it’s me who’s the grimalkin.”
“Objection,” I said. “Relevance.”
“You’re right. I distracted us. Carry on with the ancient shrew’s request.”
“Mrs. Buchanan and her potentially wandering husband. I don’t want to do the work, but Armstrong made the point—shouldn’t I help people I care about?”
“Ugh, the wench, with her good points,” said Ronnie.
“On one hand, it would feel like going behind Mrs. Buchanan’s back. The work feels voyeuristic and grimy, and the results are often painful. On the other hand, she’s our son’s teacher and she’s lovely.”
“She’s so lovely.” Ronnie ate the bite of fish on her fork, then another cut of pork.
Using her fingers, she dabbed a corner of bread into the spiced olive oil and ate it, and wiped her hands.
She sipped more Sangiovese and leaned back in her chair.
“She’s lovely and hardworking and innocent.
She and Mrs. Armstrong are opposites. Armstrong is worldly and cunning, while Buchanan feels like a clueless, doting grandmother. She’s a fanatic about Kix.”
“We like her.”
“If I was Mrs. Buchanan…” She very lightly tapped her lips with a finger, a thoughtful gesture.
“I’d feel angered by Mrs. Armstrong’s intrusion.
I’d already be leery of her, and now I’d feel violated.
But, if Armstrong’s suspicions are correct, I’d eventually be grateful.
” She nodded, her mind and up. “I’d want to know, if I was Mrs. Buchanan. ”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I said. “That’s when he usually absconds.”
“No rest for the weary.” She reached across the table to touch my face, careful not to hurt the wound above my eye. “Or for the wonderful wounded.”
“And about Emile Cardot?”
“Next week. Let’s go meet her mother.”