Chapter 12 #2
“I just can’t make this be about Emily Johnson, professional roofer,” Sam admitted.
“Or even interior decorator or plumber or...” He shook his head.
“I agree that she must’ve said freaking work of art, which makes me think she was a visitor to the estate and younger than him by decades, but.
.. I can’t make the rest of this be about anything but sex. ”
“If she was a sex worker, Emily Johnson’s probably an assumed name.”
That was true.
Which meant that even if she was listed in Dead Milt’s little leather bound address book in the top drawer of his oak desk in the estate library, they might get no further than obtaining an out of service phone number or a defunct email address.
And also...
“A man like Devonshire would surely know that,” Sam said. “Which means...”
“Maybe he’s just screwing with you,” Robin correctly finished his thought. “Or with Wig-Milt and the lawyer. Old asshole might be dead, but he’s still causing problems, stirring things up. Laughing his ass off in hell, because he’s for damn sure not in the good place.”
Sam laughed. “I knew you’d have a unique take on this.”
“Suitcase full of cash,” Robin reminded him as he threw his apple core in the trash. “Also, hearing Jules laugh...?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. He knew.
“I just wish he could sleep—and yes, I know. I’m giving him time.” Robin smiled. “Good luck today,” he said and headed out of the kitchen, no doubt in search of Jules.
Pasadena, California
“How exactly are we gonna do this?” Sam asked as they approached the home of the very first Emily Johnson on Jules’s list.
Because this part of the Valley was densely populated, the neighborhoods varied from ritzy and gated, to working class suburban, to luxury apartments, to lower income housing.
And then of course there were the ADUs or Accessory Dwelling Units.
They were former garages—separate from the tiny 1940s-era three-bedrooms-one-bath-yet-somehow-million-dollar houses—that had been made into miniature rental apartments because housing in this part of the city was so hard to come by.
Their very first Emily lived in one of those, down a narrow driveway between the main house and the neighbor’s.
It was barely wide enough to park a compact car, let alone the giant trucks that so many people drove these days, so it really was more of a glorified sidewalk to the back unit.
Someone had planted lilies on either side which made the clean new construction of the ADU look a bit like a tiny fairy tale cottage down at the end of a magical garden path.
Today was their very first day of knocking on doors and saying... What?
Sam’s was a good question.
If they opened with “Hello, are you the Emily Johnson who is named in Milton Devonshire’s will,” it was hard to imagine anyone not saying yes.
Or at least, I could be. Someone who was as crazy-pants eccentric as Dead Milt had apparently been, could very well have chosen an Emily who didn’t know him.
That wasn’t impossible, which was why they needed access to the old man’s papers, diaries, calendars, notes—all of which they hoped they’d find when the fourth and final housekeeper, Rene Williams, unlocked the library door later today.
“I think we try to incite a mix of healthy curiosity with a soupcon of greed,” Jules said, ringing the doorbell. “All while stretching the truth just a tad. Allow me to demonstrate.”
“Perfect,” Sam said. “Still not it.”
Jules laughed as the door opened with a chain lock securely fastened—this Emily was no fool.
“Hi, I’m Bob Franklin and this is Trent Ramrod,” Jules said.
He didn’t have to glance at Sam to note his amused disgust at his assigned fake name, but it did make his own pleasant smile more genuine, which always helped.
“We’re working for the estate of TV producer Milton Devonshire.
They hired us to find an Emily Johnson that he mentions in his will—are you Emily? ”
The slice of woman that he could see through the open few inches of door was in her sixties and enormously suspicious.
“Seriously?” she said. “Do people actually open their door for that shit?”
Sam was looking at him with the same question in his eyes.
“Well, we’re just starting our search, so I’ll let you know how it goes,” Jules said.
“Here’s the deal—we want to find Emily fast. She stands to inherit a rather large sum of money.
There’s a sealed document that includes her social security number—” Stretching the truth?
He could read Sam’s mind and yeah, okay, that was a giant screaming lie, but it would keep people honest, he hoped “—but it’s gonna be months before the court unseals that info, so we’re looking for her the old-fashioned, gumshoe way.
It’s inconvenient and awkward, and I deeply apologize for disturbing you, ma’am, but if you are our Emily Johnson—if you knew Milton Devonshire, maybe even back when you were a child—we all win if you give his lawyer a call.
” He was carrying a small stack of business cards with Harper’s phone number on them and he held one out, now.
“And what,” their suspicious Emily said, pointedly not reaching out to take the card. “I just need to send this lawyer a thousand bucks of my own money to unlock the million dollar prize?”
“Absolutely not,” Jules said, again adding, “But if you are Emily, and you knew Milt Devonshire—”
“I didn’t,” she said. “Never heard of him. Go away or I’ll call the police.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Jules said. “I’m sorry for—” She closed the door somewhat forcefully. “Disturbing you.” He turned to Sam and exhaled hard. “Well now.”
“Doesn’t know DM,” Sam read aloud as he wrote the words on their abbreviated list with the cheap, blue ball-point pen he always carried in the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s short for Dead Milt.”
“I figured as much,” Jules said.
“You were brilliant,” Sam said. “I’m in awe.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Jules rolled his eyes as he pushed past him to head back down the driveway toward the street. “Tip your waitress, I’ll be here all week.” This wasn’t easy without an FBI badge to flash. Shit.
“One down, three million and six to go,” Sam mused as he followed. “Is it time for lunch yet, Bob?”
Palm Springs, California
Emily woke up to find Mick out on the balcony, on the phone, his voice low.
Not only had traffic been terrible last night, but his car’s check engine warning light had come on during the traffic-filled drive—which was something that Mick, appropriately, took very seriously.
Before he’d even called Emily to tell her about it, he’d found an auto repair shop out near the airport where the harried service department receptionist said he could try to squeeze Mick in.
He’d dropped the car off and took an Uber to the hotel.
He’d arrived long after dinner, looking haggard and worried—it had been a grueling day for him, ending with that unexpected issue with his car.
He didn’t go into detail about his meeting, merely stating that there were some ongoing technical issues with the film project he was working on.
Which was pretty standard in his business. When weren’t there tech issues?
Still, despite the fact that Mick was clearly exhausted—unlike Emily, he hadn’t napped in the afternoon—he’d pulled her out onto the balcony to watch the fireworks that lit up the sky to the east, celebrating what, they didn’t know. But there was always something to celebrate in Palm Springs.
The desert air was fresh and cool so Emily had gratefully pulled on her favorite fleece. She sat toboggan-style with Mick on a lounge chair, between his legs, leaning back against his chest with his arms around her, just watching the show.
“This is nice,” he said, his voice warm in her ear. “I’m really glad to be here—and, honestly? The car trouble means I can’t go swooping back for any other emergency that comes up so I’m kinda glad for that, too.”
Emily had to laugh. It was typical Mick—making lemonade from lemons.
“’Fess up,” he added, “since I wasn’t here to stop you, you wandered onto social media, am I right?”
“Busted,” she admitted. “It wasn’t terrible, though.
I think there’s so much awfulness going on right now, Devonshire’s death hasn’t made very much news.
Although you know what was weird? Or more weird, it’s all weird, but I was actually a little bit mad.
You know, that none of his obits mentioned my mom’s death.
Like, she’s so fifteen-years-ago. Who cares anymore? ”
“I care,” he murmured.
“But I’m over it,” she told him. “The being mad, I mean. Carlotta’s not. I spoke to her today—just briefly.”
“Carlotta’s never not mad,” he pointed out, and she laughed because he was not wrong about that.
“Did you... Did you ever meet them?” Mick asked, his voice quiet in the relative stillness after the fireworks finale.
“The Devonshires, father... or son?” It was the first time he’d ever asked her about them, and he immediately backpedaled.
“I know you don’t like talking about them, so if you don’t want to. ..”
“No,” she said. “It’s okay. And it’s kind of funny, I was thinking about it just today.”
She told him about her visit to the elderly Milt, about the photo she’d framed for him, about their vexing, frustrating conversation.
“I knew going in that he was a jerk,” Emily continued.
“I think I just hoped that... Well, I really wanted to connect with the son. But Milt Senior didn’t have his contact info—or, you know, if he had it he wouldn’t give it to me.
After that unpleasantness, I searched for the younger Milt a bit on my own, but it was like the kid—he was a man by then, but I still think of him as a kid—it was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth.
He was just gone.” She laughed a little.
“I guess I’d be gone, too, if I’d done what he did.
” She’d tipped her head back then, to look up at Mick. “Do you think he’ll be at the funeral?”
“Oh,” Mick said. “Wow. Gee, I don’t know. That’s... a very good question. If I was gonna guess, I’d say... no?”
“I mean, it is possible they reconciled,” Emily said.
“It’s been four—no, five years since I went out to the estate.
” The lights from the resort were a gorgeous display of their own and happy, festive music drifted up from a patio somewhere down below them.
“I just keep thinking, what if this is my one chance to meet him? The son. You know, at the funeral.”
“You really want to, huh?” Mick said, his voice as much of a whisper as hers had been. “Meet him?”
“Yeah, I do,” Emily admitted. “Not to forgive him—I’m never going to forgive him, that’s not gonna happen, but... I just want to look him in the eye. To have him look me in the eye and, I don’t know, acknowledge that his actions had terrible consequences.”
“Hmm,” he said. “If you want, I could dig a little, find out if he’ll be there.”
“What,” she said, smiling back at him, “you mean, scour the internet? Dive into social media? That’s your least favorite thing in the world.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re my most favorite, so...”
She’d kissed him then, and it wasn’t long before they went inside.
Now, in the morning light, Emily slipped on the hotel robe and opened the slider, and Mick turned to look at her, forcing a smile as he said, “Hey, gotta go,” and ended his call, pocketing his phone. Wait, that wasn’t his phone...
“Good morning,” he said.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your call.”
“No, we were done.”
“Did you get a new phone?”
“Oh,” he said. “No, well, yeah. Sort of...? This... project has, um, a producer who’s... overseas so yesterday they gave me this phone with, um, an international SIM card.” He pulled it out of his pocket and yeah, that was not his regular phone. It looked kind of shitty. Cheap.
“I thought you had a plan with international calling,” Emily said. “Didn’t you get it for that job with the client in Portugal?”
“Well, yes, but this... it allows him—this producer—to call me without his racking up the charges,” he explained. “You just, you know, say yes when they hand you a phone and make a request like this one. Particularly when there’s so many other times in the project that you have to say no.”
That made sense. As she moved toward him, he opened his arms and she nestled there as he hugged her back.
“What time did you get up?” she asked.
It was barely eight, but he was fully dressed. Of course, the desert morning was still cool.
“I think around six,” Mick said, kissing the top of her head. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was trying to get some work done.”
“You really don’t have to stay here with me,” she said, looking up at him. “I should’ve said that to you yesterday, while you were back in LA.”
“You made it very clear before I left,” he reminded her, kissing her sweetly. “But I’m exactly where I want to be. Wanna go get breakfast?”
“I was thinking room service,” she said. “In about an hour...?”
Mick smiled as he let her pull him back into the room, back into bed. “Works for me.”