30


Paid Off


Breedlove, Conway and Gallagher, attorneys at law, weren’t far from Sam Funeral Home’s, so Temple and Electra shared Temple’s two-seat red Miata while Diane drove her rental car to meet them there.

Temple had to wait in the expected mahogany and leather outer office while Electra and Diane, apparently the only heirs, went into the attorney’s inner office. She tapped her toe impatiently on the forest-green plush carpeting while paging through Newsweek magazine. Thank God some magazines were still in print.

She wanted to be there, an eyewitness at this oft-filmed cinematic cliché, the second she’d viewed today, The Reading of the Will. The first had been the Black Widow from Central Casting.

Of course, with one lawyer who knew no one involved, including the deceased, and two fairly friendly ex-wives, the event was not likely to be drenched in drama.

Which was why Temple leaped out of her seat when a soprano “No!” boomed from behind the closed door to the inner office.

The outburst was followed by a bass male murmur and rapid breathless soprano arpeggios.

Temple paced the waiting room.

She neared the door, stopped, and listened with all her attention. She could hear nothing clearly, except the counterpoint of agitated high and low calming tones.

Then all sound stopped.

Temple waited and wondered, and was caught flat-footed in the figurative sense when the door burst open, emitting a dazed-looking Electra and Diane.

Ethan Gallagher, a thin man in a stuffy, dark three-piece suit that looked horribly hot for Vegas, followed them out, frowning at Temple’s proximity. “Remember, ladies, you don’t have to reveal the terms of the will to anyone except the police.”

He glared at Temple. She glared back and followed the women into the hall. “Well, Mr. Gallagher’s parting words were on the rude side,” she said. “Unless you want to keep the terms private from snoops like me.”

Diane hesitated, but Electra didn’t. “I need a drink. I need to sit down. Ditto for Diane. Take us somewhere, Temple. We are too gobsmacked to think.”

A PR person’s main meeting places are in the community she covers, its restaurants and watering holes. In Las Vegas, there were enough of those to trip over every fifty feet, even at 10:00 a.m. in the morning. After giving Diane directions, in fifteen minutes she had them all installed at the Stratosphere’s 108th-floor Air Bar, with Electra and Diane ordering four-dollar strawberry-lime frozen margaritas, set down on paper napkins that read: AFRAID OF HEIGHTS.

Temple’s stomach quavered at so much alcoholic sweetness, especially at extreme heights, so she stuck to ice water. She was driving, after all.

The cool green neon interior was fairly deserted and the 360-degree view of Las Vegas looked dusty and distant, like any southwest desertscape.

“So what’s the news?” Temple asked.

Diane and Electra noisily sucked up flavored crushed ice. Diane spoke first. “I got the house in Dayton, Ohio.”

“Is that a good thing?” Temple asked.

“At my age, any house is an asset,” Diane said. “I didn’t expect him to leave me anything.”

“And Electra?”

Electra was staring out at the drab landscape, slowly slurping the lurid drink in its lowly plastic glass in front of her. “I can’t believe it.”

“What you got in the will?”

Temple glanced at Diane, who nodded solemnly. “I can’t believe it either. But the lawyer said the house is free and clear, no liens or anything. And Electra—”

“Jay had it in his will.” Electra’s eyes shone with tears. “He left me all his Vegas land and the buildings on it. So I’ve got your baby urban village going, Temple. And to think I cussed him out just before he died.”

Temple couldn’t reveal at this maudlin moment that she had a hugely hot idea for said urban village. Instead, she offered consolation.

“Jay made the bequest long before you yelled at him,” Temple said with a smile. “That’s fabulous. I wonder why he didn’t tell you that?” She jumped down from her skimpy bar-height chair, her heels hitting the smooth floor with a clap like hands. “Let’s find a window that overlooks your new empire.”

She rushed to the slanted glass windows with DO NOT LEAN ON signs posted at regular intervals. Outside, clothed body parts and screaming faces flashed by as the Stratosphere’s extreme thrill rides plunged willing riders up and down and around at fearsome heights and speed.

“We’re right near the Pawn Stars village,” Temple said.

“That looks like an ant hill,” Diane exclaimed.

“Four thousand people a day,” Electra quoted Temple.

But Temple’s high heels were almost striking sparks off the shiny floor as she raced to another window view.

“Come on. This is the window we want. Look. Down there.” Temple pointed. “There’s the police substation roof and your penthouse atop the Circle Ritz and a little bit over and down, your new, big empty building and lot.”

“Oh, my,” Electra said. “It’s more land than just that. I need to get home and look up my plat maps. I think I remember where Jay’s parts began and ended, but we could probably get them from the city too.” Her excitement ebbed. “I’ll always remember that building as where Jay died, where he was killed.”

“He wanted you to have it,” Diane said quietly, slipping her arm through Electra’s. “He provided for us both. That’s an amazing thing for a divorced man to do. If he hadn’t been addicted to gambling—”

“There you go,” Electra said. “A phrase that could go on many a Vegas headstone.”

Temple put an arm through Electra’s free one and pulled both women back to the bar. “Let’s finish our drinks with a toast to Jay Edgar and then go get our feet on the ground. Your new ground, Electra.”

What she didn’t say, and wasn’t about to over the older women’s strawberry-lime frozen margaritas, was that she hoped J. Edgar Dyson hadn’t signed any irrevocable documents with the interested parties who’d seemed determined to fleece him, and maybe even had killed him after he’d signed on the dotted line. The bizarre manner of death and location sure wouldn’t help authorities look farther than Electra or her friends.

Nor did Temple point out that Molina and company would consider Electra being Dyson’s most significant heir made her an even more likely suspect for engineering his macabre murder.

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