Whisper a Warning Page 2

  When his uncle had benevolently offered him a job in his firm, he hadn’t been able to come up with a reason to turn it down. The offer had actually been his sister Georgia’s idea, he was sure. Knowing George’s amazing ways, it wasn’t much of a surprise that William had taken her up on the suggestion. One didn’t cross George and come out unscathed, in a manner of speaking.

  It wasn’t that George was violent . . . she was absolutely not. She was tenacious. Like a pit bull. Or like one of those flies that buzzes around your head, not biting or stinging or even landing, but driving you mad nonetheless. If you wanted to keep George from buzzing, you did what she said. Case closed.

  The rest of the family had about given up on him. He had left the firm, which was considered a breach on its own accord. But then he had persisted in sitting around and doing nothing. Doing nothing was not acceptable to the Harrison heritage. One might not work for money, like his mother, the queen of charities, but one worked. One achieved.

  But he had been, he could see now, in a deep depression, unable to cope with the grief and guilt and pain of his friend Peter’s death. No one had been willing to talk about that. No one understood. Except George.

  Georgina Canfield Harrison had been born a few short years after he had made his appearance in the world. She had always had a certain sense of maturity and wisdom that never seemed to fit her tiny elflike appearance. She had deemed herself “George” from an early age, and no one had bothered to fight with her about it. It was understood that you wouldn’t win anyway. George was George.

  But not only was George his sister, she also was a sister. Sister George. George had entered the convent the very day she had graduated from Smith College, and she had happily been a nun ever since. She was a member of a progressive community, where the members were assigned to serve in a parish but were encouraged to live on their own in the community they served. George lived in Ryerstown, Pennsylvania, in a simple but spacious apartment on the second floor of a glorious old Victorian home.

  When she had decided that her brother Rockford needed to be shaken out of his lethargy, she had contacted the uncle who lived in her town, and had started the ball rolling. She had invited Rockford to visit her, and when he had complied, she had literally kidnapped him, and coerced him into studying for the Pennsylvania bar exam. Buzz buzz. Not in the mood to argue, he had followed her well-thought-out directions and suggestions, and had passed the exam with flying colors.

  So now he was ensconced in Uncle William’s firm, still living with George, and gradually feeling the smoky haze of depression that had hovered over him begin to dissipate.

  “Things will get better. Just give yourself time.” Thank goodness for George. She had been his anchor, his bossy guiding light. So his life was slowly cranking up again, one full year since Peter’s death.

  He could remember the day as if it had happened just yesterday. He had planned to meet Peter for lunch at the prestigious Winchester Club, known for its sedate elegance and 120-year-old history of gracious service to New York’s elite. When Rockford was shown to his usual table, Peter was already seated, the chilled bottle of wine ready to pour, strains of Mozart in the air.

  “You beat me but good, you smooth talker.” There was a hint of criticism in Peter’s voice. “Sit down and celebrate. The scum went free.”

  Rockford grinned, his adrenaline still pumping. He liked to win. “Poor loser, Emerson? Forget your lines in the closing statement? Maybe the jury didn’t like your tie, ever think of that?” He squinted his eyes at his tablemate critically. “Come to think of it, I’m not too overly fond of that tie myself!”

  They shook hands, smiling, settling at the table.

  Rockford had been born to money and power. Peter was self-made, and liked to describe himself as hardworking and principled. Rockford described him as hardheaded.

  Their friendship had been forged at college, then at Harvard Law School. At graduation, Rockford had comfortably settled into the corner office of his father’s prestigious law firm, Harrison, Hasbrough and Jacobs. He had expected Peter to come along. The firm had been more than willing. Peter had not.

  Instead, Peter had opted for lower pay and grueling hours as an assistant district attorney for the city of New York, a crusader for justice, law, and order. He didn’t like to lose in court like he had today.

  “I thought I had him, big shot,” Peter said over the rim of his wineglass. “Evidence, brilliant final argument. . . to say nothing of the fact that the guy was absolutely dead guilty.”

  Rockford looked pensively at his friend. He had been surprised with the jury’s verdict himself. His defense had been stellar. His client, he was pretty sure, was far from it.

  They had met in court before, though with the size of the New York court system, the odds were such that it didn’t happen often. On the rare occasion that they met in court, they had an ironclad rule. They would ethically keep their distance during the course of the trial, then meet here at the club for lunch after the verdict, and the winner would pay. So far, it had kept their friendship intact.

  “I didn’t like this case a bit, Pete,” Rockford admitted quietly. Waiters buzzed busily but unobtrusively around them. “I did what I was hired to do, but I didn’t have a lot of faith in the guy.”

  Peter wasn’t smiling. “You’re too smart to have faith in the guy. Marco Slergetti is a first-degree creep. He was guilty. I’ve got to admit that it sticks in my craw, buddy, that you’d defend somebody who was guilty of killing an old lady like that.”

  “A jury of twelve didn’t convict him, Peter.”

  “A jury of twelve believed in the defense counsel. They believed that you believed in your client. They believed you.”

  “Whoa, man, what’s gotten into you? It’s not like we haven’t both won or lost cases to each other before. What’s this all about?”

  Peter’s face looked tight and drawn.

  “We both lose here, Rock. You can’t tell me that you’re happy about defending a guy like that, knowing that he would be out on the streets again, killing someone else. It’s like your heart is dead. Where’s your sense of honor? Is it the money? You’ve got enough, man. Don’t put a price on your integrity.”

  “A man is entitled to a defense.”

  “Spare me. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to realize that there’s more to law than winning or losing. It’s not like a soccer game, Rock. People’s lives are at stake here. Tell me honestly, did you think the guy was innocent? He’s the head of a mob family. He orders hits the way you order lunch. Did you think even for a moment about the fact that you might not want to defend him, that you had a choice? Or do you just put yourself on stage and do your father’s bidding? What’s it going to take to wake you up, Rock?”

  Rockford’s throat felt tight. Peter’s eyes burned into his. “I didn’t think. I took the case, and I wanted to win. I won.”

  Peter shook his head. “You should have turned the case down, Rockford. You didn’t win. You lost. You lost your integrity. Cheers.”

  With sad eyes, Peter lifted his glass in a mock salute. Rockford stared at him, his words stinging like barbs. Not too many people on this earth dared to criticize Rockford Farquahar Harrison III. But he knew that Peter was right. He had only wanted to win. He had disliked the client intensely, and he had, as Peter had charged, suspected that his client was guilty of the heinous crime as charged.

  But he had wanted to win. So he hadn’t asked the tough questions, and he had ignored the nagging burr-under-the-saddle feeling he had been having that his life wasn’t going the way it should. His ethical, pain-in-the-neck friend Peter was right.

  But before he could speak, a white-jacketed waiter moved beside him. In a split second, Rockford’s eye registered the gun raised in his left hand, aimed directly at Peter. The gun blasted, hitting his friend squarely in the chest.

  “That’s from Marco,” the man hissed in a gravelly voice, as he spun on his heel and ran.

 
Pandemonium broke out. Rockford sat rooted in his chair, frozen to the spot. People screamed and scrambled around him.

  Broken, he sat across the white linen-clad table from Peter. His friend had died instantly. The light in his eyes had been extinguished like a blown-out candle with the impact. Rockford watched the giant red splotch on Peter’s chest grow larger, soaking his tie as he sprawled back in his chair.

  Mozart still played in the background, but it was almost drowned out by the sound of nearing police sirens.

  Peter was dead, and he felt more responsible than if he had been the one who pulled the trigger. Marco. Peter had said that he would murder again. Peter had been right. And Rockford Farquahar Harrison III had set him free to order it.

  Paramedics had arrived, loading the body onto a stretcher to be taken to the hospital. Death would simply not be pronounced at the Winchester Club. It just wasn’t done.

  One of “New York’s Finest” was shooting questions at him, and he answered automatically, his mind disengaged, his eyes still seeing the horror of the blood-soaked tie of his best friend.

  The gunman had been shot on the sidewalk, outside the club. An APB went out for Marco Slergetti, but he was not found. It was suspected that he had already left the country under an assumed name.

  After the funeral, Rockford had handed in his resignation from the family firm, despite his father’s strong objections.

  He didn’t know quite what he was going to do with his life, but one thing he knew for sure. Peter had been right. There had been no winners at that fatal trial. No winners at all.

  He sat in the empty silence for a minute. Down the hall a door slammed, bringing him back to the present. He pushed the memories away.

  Everyone had finished their day of work, leaving for the second part of their lives, to see spouses, friends, lovers. He hated this time of the day, when he would have to face the facts of his empty life, with no one to go home to.

  George, of course, would blow in sooner or later, revved up about some cause she was attending to, and then usually blow back out again. But for him, Rockford Farquahar Harrison III, former dazzle boy of New York City, he was looking at a night consisting of a lonely dinner followed by TV reruns.

  He looked out the window before rising to put on his suit coat. A long white stretch limo was pulling up to the curb across the street. He decided he should look out of the window more often. There was more excitement in Ryers town than he had originally believed.

  The doors of the limo opened, and two people got out. He rubbed his eyes. He could have sworn it was Manxo Manxo, a top-of-the-charts rock star who crooned wild love songs with a vibrant beat. He had seen him once or twice in the posh New York nightclubs he had frequented in the past. What was he doing in Ryerstown? He forgot the question, however, as the next passenger came into view. It was a tall, leggy blond, a real eye-catcher. Not at all like his leggy blond from the afternoon, but beautiful nonetheless. He watched for a minute, laughing at himself. He was turning into a voyeur.

  From her wild spiked hair, to her funny, strappy shoes that crisscrossed up miles of bare leg, she took his breath away. Her face was almost hidden behind an enormous pair of dark sunglasses, and big, golden hoops sparkled in her ears.

  The two disappeared into a small real estate office across the street. Maybe the rocker and his girlfriend were buying some local property. That would be big news in Ryerstown!

  He left the window when they disappeared from sight, finally leaving the quiet office and locking the door behind him. The sun was still high in the June sky, even though it was past 5:00 P.M. There were still many hours to kill before the night really arrived and the day was officially over.

  Rockford sighed, and headed home.

  Chapter Three

  “Congratulations, Willow!” “Atta girl!” The office was charged with energy after Manxo Manxo’s long gleaming limo had pulled away from the curb, carrying the famous singer who was now the proud owner of a 1.2 million-dollar property. Clutching his accepted agreement of sale, Manxo (who Willow had decided was really quite a nice guy) had gone back to the city to arrange the financing for his new country estate.

  “This is the biggest sale we’ve ever had, Willow,” said Mr. Reynolds quietly, as he sat reviewing the papers in awe. The final closing on the property would take place in two weeks’ time. “What a commission!”

  “Book the trip, Mr. R.” she said, handing him a brochure of tours of Sweden and Scandinavia she had stopped to pick up at the local travel agency. “I wasn’t kidding. Take Mrs. Reynolds on that trip we talked about.”

  He clutched the brochure and chuckled. “I am going to take her, Wilhemina. I’m going to call and make the reservation right now. I just hope her heart can take the shock!”

  Willow’s eyes shined with emotion, but she blinked back the tears. Crying wasn’t something she had in her repertoire. Willow Blake did not cry.

  She swung around and plunked herself down at her desk. “Make sure you get the coffeemaker, now. We’re counting on you!”

  Even Mildred chuckled.

  Willow closed up her desk for the day, pleased with the outcome of the sale, and feeling the warmth of the people she worked with. The money would come in handy to keep her life plugging along. She’d pay her back bills, put away a financial buffer, and still have money left to start a rehab fund for the group in the AIDS home. She’d failed at the bank, but she wouldn’t fail the boys. Already her mind was brainstorming gimmicks to encourage the community to donate the necessary funds. She felt good.

  She headed for home, letting the wind whip her still-moussed hair in the Miata, pulling down the long drive to her cottage in a few short minutes. Energized by the sight of her simple but peaceful place, settled on the back of an old horse farm, she climbed out of the car, stretching her long legs and happy to be home. Her big orange cat came to greet her, with a small black kitten in tow.

  She jumped into the shower, washing the last traces of makeup from her face and mousse from her hair, and climbed into a pair of well-worn jeans and cowboy boots. She pulled an oversized Yale sweatshirt over her head, and towel-dried her hair. It was time to go meet the kids.

  Willow had moved into her little cottage a year ago, when it had become available, but she had been living in a small room at the farm since the day she had stepped off the bus with no more than a backpack on her back. At seventeen, taking all the courage she had possessed, she had left her cruel and destructive father for a fresh start at life.

  The bus had left Philadelphia and headed for the sprawling suburbs. She had been seated next to a cute little girl who was traveling alone, about eight years old. Her legs, below her knees, wore heavy metal braces.

  It had really been Maybeth who had introduced her to Higher Horizons Farm. “I’m going to a really cool farm,” she had said with a giggle. “You go horseback riding there. I’m going to learn how to ride a horse. Like in the movies.”

  Willow had been charmed with her effervescent personality, but skeptical about her plans.

  “Is somebody meeting you? Have you done this before?”

  “Miss Maggie will fetch me, Mom says. My teacher got it all fixed up. Mom couldn’t come ’cause we only had money for one bus fare. But that’s all right, ’cause Miss Maggie will be there to take me to the farm. Then I’ll ride my horse.”

  Willow had looked down at the braces, praying the little girl’s hopes wouldn’t be dashed by reality. She knew just how dashing reality could be. She still had bruises on her arm to remind her.

  So she had followed Maybeth off the bus in Ryerstown, determined that her dreams would not be squashed by the unknown “Maggie.”

  Maybeth had maneuvered herself off the high bus steps, refusing the help that Willow offered.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” she had shyly said. “But I can do this. Just watch.” And she could.

  And then there was Miss Maggie. Maggie McCann, a five-foot, eleven-inch, gray-haired ball of energy, had look
ed much less than her sixty years as her face had exploded in a smile for Maybeth as the youngster had struggled off the bus.

  “That was real good, Maybeth,” she said in the quiet, steady voice that Willow later had learned to love. “Ready to meet your horse?”

  Willow had tears in her eyes watching the excited girl.

  “How about you, Blondie?” Maggie had drawled. “You here with Maybeth? I thought she was coming alone.”

  “I, uh, met her on the bus. I was . . . concerned.”

  Maggie nodded. “You late for something? In a rush?”

  Willow shook her head.

  “You want to come meet a horse, too? You look like you could use a friend to talk to. Horses listen real good . . . and I can always use a hand.” Maggie knew a runaway when she saw one.

  So she had been bundled along, backpack over her shoulder, and she had ridden out to Higher Horizons Farm with Maggie and Maybeth in the ancient Suburban that she had used forever to tote kids and horse supplies.

  She had fallen in love for the first time that day. With Maybeth, Maggie, Higher Horizons Farm, and with a horse named Mac. She had watched in astounded awe as Maggie had worked with the vivacious little girl, strapping her into a special equestrian saddle to keep her weakened legs secure on the horse. She had seen the esteem climb higher and higher as the little girl experienced the magic of horseback riding.

  First working with Maggie until she felt secure, Maybeth ended the session in the ring with four other physically challenged kids. Maggie sat on a tall stool in the center of the ring, giving lesson commands and evaluating each student. Teenaged volunteers were assigned to assist each rider. Willow was mesmerized.

  She had mucked stalls, and learned about horses. She had been standing, hot and sweaty, with pieces of hay stuck in her long blond hair, when she turned and found Maggie standing watching her. Her long arms folded in front of her, she leaned one hip against the beam of the stall.

  “You did good work, Wilhelmina. Thank you.” Willow took the twenty-dollar bill that Maggie had offered, dreaming of dinner.