other two were from Seattle.”
“Did Kerr or Patrick have any dealings with Timothy Enright?”
“I don’t know. Patrick is—was—an attorney. He handled Four Square’s closings.” Reggie cocked her head. “I suppose he could have done Tim’s will. He did mine and Manu’s. He was a good attorney. Too bad he got involved with Four Square.”
“Who took over his business?”
“His partner, Riley Kendall.”
I turned the pad back around and wrote down the new information.
“Don’t expect Riley to confide much,” Reggie said. “She’s Norm Patrick’s daughter.”
I left the library at just past six p.m. and decided to take a chance that Riley Kendall might still be in her office.
The office door still bore the words PATRICK AND KENDALL, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. Either Riley hadn’t gotten around to changing it during the past several months, or her dad was hoping to get his law license reinstated after he’d served his time. I opened the door, and a chime sounded. It wasn’t a friendly little jingle like the bells over my shop door. This was more like a doorbell or a muted gong.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?” The cultured voice came from my left and belonged to a woman with gray-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun. For some reason, her appearance made me feel like a child . . . a child who should be seen and not heard. Accordingly, I spoke as softly as I could without actually whispering.
“May I please see Riley Kendall?”
“Ms. Kendall is with a client at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?”
“I’d like to wait, if you don’t think she’ll be very much longer.”
“You may have a seat in the reception area.”
I thought I was already in the reception area, but I mumbled a “thank you” and carefully stepped across the Oriental rug to the floral brocade sofa. Riley may not have changed the firm’s name, but I had to wonder if she’d redecorated the offices in her father’s absence. This room, at least, had a strong feminine presence. Wingback chairs brought out the rose color in the sofa, and a designer floral arrangement in the center of the highly polished cherry table beautifully highlighted the rest of the sofa’s muted tones. The room made me think of my aunt June. She was an interior designer—the love of fabrics runs in our family. Aunt June used to always say, “Buy your couch, and I’ll build your room around it.”
I turned my head at the sound of voices. One of them seemed familiar. The two women had their backs to me, but I could see that one was a brunette in a pale blue suit and the other had red hair like . . .
She suddenly faced me. Yep. Lorraine Enright.
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here? Are you following me?”
“No, Mrs. Enright. I’m here to see Ms. Kendall.”
Lorraine whirled back to Riley. “Don’t you dare tell her a thing we talked about—do you hear me? Not a thing!”
“That goes without saying, Lorraine,” the woman I assumed must be Riley said calmly. “Attorney-client privilege, remember?”
“I remember. Just see that you do.” With that, she stormed out of the office.
I rose from the sofa, and Riley met me halfway. She held out her hand. “Riley Kendall. What can I do for you?”
I shook her hand. “Hi. I’m Marcy Singer.” Glancing at the receptionist, I asked if we could speak privately. The receptionist glared at me.
“Sure. Mom, hold my calls for a few minutes, please.”
Inwardly, I groaned. Somehow, I’d managed to infuriate one of this woman’s clients and insult her mother within a mere five minutes of meeting her. Even for me, that had to be some sort of record.
“Don’t forget,” said Riley’s mom, “we need to pay Margaret Trelawney a visit later this evening.”
Before she’d left the shop, Sadie had suggested that she and I visit Mrs. Trelawney tonight, as well. I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to hurry if I was going to be on time to meet
“Did Kerr or Patrick have any dealings with Timothy Enright?”
“I don’t know. Patrick is—was—an attorney. He handled Four Square’s closings.” Reggie cocked her head. “I suppose he could have done Tim’s will. He did mine and Manu’s. He was a good attorney. Too bad he got involved with Four Square.”
“Who took over his business?”
“His partner, Riley Kendall.”
I turned the pad back around and wrote down the new information.
“Don’t expect Riley to confide much,” Reggie said. “She’s Norm Patrick’s daughter.”
I left the library at just past six p.m. and decided to take a chance that Riley Kendall might still be in her office.
The office door still bore the words PATRICK AND KENDALL, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. Either Riley hadn’t gotten around to changing it during the past several months, or her dad was hoping to get his law license reinstated after he’d served his time. I opened the door, and a chime sounded. It wasn’t a friendly little jingle like the bells over my shop door. This was more like a doorbell or a muted gong.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?” The cultured voice came from my left and belonged to a woman with gray-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun. For some reason, her appearance made me feel like a child . . . a child who should be seen and not heard. Accordingly, I spoke as softly as I could without actually whispering.
“May I please see Riley Kendall?”
“Ms. Kendall is with a client at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?”
“I’d like to wait, if you don’t think she’ll be very much longer.”
“You may have a seat in the reception area.”
I thought I was already in the reception area, but I mumbled a “thank you” and carefully stepped across the Oriental rug to the floral brocade sofa. Riley may not have changed the firm’s name, but I had to wonder if she’d redecorated the offices in her father’s absence. This room, at least, had a strong feminine presence. Wingback chairs brought out the rose color in the sofa, and a designer floral arrangement in the center of the highly polished cherry table beautifully highlighted the rest of the sofa’s muted tones. The room made me think of my aunt June. She was an interior designer—the love of fabrics runs in our family. Aunt June used to always say, “Buy your couch, and I’ll build your room around it.”
I turned my head at the sound of voices. One of them seemed familiar. The two women had their backs to me, but I could see that one was a brunette in a pale blue suit and the other had red hair like . . .
She suddenly faced me. Yep. Lorraine Enright.
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here? Are you following me?”
“No, Mrs. Enright. I’m here to see Ms. Kendall.”
Lorraine whirled back to Riley. “Don’t you dare tell her a thing we talked about—do you hear me? Not a thing!”
“That goes without saying, Lorraine,” the woman I assumed must be Riley said calmly. “Attorney-client privilege, remember?”
“I remember. Just see that you do.” With that, she stormed out of the office.
I rose from the sofa, and Riley met me halfway. She held out her hand. “Riley Kendall. What can I do for you?”
I shook her hand. “Hi. I’m Marcy Singer.” Glancing at the receptionist, I asked if we could speak privately. The receptionist glared at me.
“Sure. Mom, hold my calls for a few minutes, please.”
Inwardly, I groaned. Somehow, I’d managed to infuriate one of this woman’s clients and insult her mother within a mere five minutes of meeting her. Even for me, that had to be some sort of record.
“Don’t forget,” said Riley’s mom, “we need to pay Margaret Trelawney a visit later this evening.”
Before she’d left the shop, Sadie had suggested that she and I visit Mrs. Trelawney tonight, as well. I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to hurry if I was going to be on time to meet
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