Harry found every possible traffic jam between Marjorie’s and Miss Giveny’s streets. Mercifully, his secretary remained encased in silence throughout the long ride. She lived on Mortimer Avenue, a broad and desolate thoroughfare cutting across the east end of the city. One dwarf maple per lot dotted the roadway, and each tiny bungalow had a huge carport attached, creating an unsettling, lopsided effect. Despite the early spring, not a soul walked along the dreary roadway. Perhaps the Florist had frightened people inside.

As he pulled into the driveway, his secretary sat in tense silence.

“Good night, Miss Giveny,” said Harry, opening the car door for her.

“Thank you for the ride,” she said stiffly. “Everyone’s worried sick about that dreadful Florist. I hope they catch him soon. People should be able to go about without worry.” Pursing her lips, she stared straight ahead in the gloom. Harry only nodded.

Suddenly, the front door of the house flew open. A woman, about Miss Giveny’s age, stepped out, wearing a pink nightie. Framed in the light of the doorway, Harry saw her sagging body. With the eagerness of a small child, the woman waved and called out,

“Hiya Gladdie! Where ya been?” Then she crouched down on the top step and giggled, clasping her hands around her knees. “Gladdie’s got a gentleman friend, I see.”

Miss Giveny almost stumbled in her haste to get out of the car. Turning back, she peered in the dark at Harry. “It’s my sister, Merle, Mr. Jenkins.” She spoke with somber dignity. “She’s my responsibility. She’s not right in the head.” She shut the car door and took Merle inside.

Heading home, Harry reflected on Miss Giveny’s world. Never once had she spoken of her burdens. Her truculence was much more understandable now.

Squinting in the lights of oncoming traffic, his mind wandered to the worlds of Marjorie’s relatives. Although his client had rarely spoken of her niece, Katharine Rowe, he thought she worked in architectural design. The nephew, Gerry, was a dentist. Only her concerns for Suzannah had been voiced. And Donnie sounded like plenty of trouble. But for Harry, raising kids was unknown territory.

Switching on the radio, he caught a tune from his early undergraduate years in the seventies. The face of Dean Faulkner, a friend from back then, floated in front of him. Only a few days ago, he had met him for a drink. Dean had done a better job of keeping his hair than Harry had.

Dark figures had crowded around the bar. Even with the noise, Dean’s bitterness had come through loud and clear.

“Orion’s been in the forefront of architectural planning for decades. But it’s running out of steam.” Dean stared into his glass, then looked up into Harry’s eyes. “I’m an ‘old-school’ planner accused of creating idyllic pastures for sheep.” He snorted. “Higgledy-piggledy neighborhoods are in fashion. Like untended gardens of weeds. Soon there’ll be no work for planners.”

“They’re firing you?”

“Hardly! They’re smarter than that. One woman, Katharine Rowe, along with two guys, Taylor and Metzler, have orchestrated my departure.”

“Are they offering a package?” asked Harry. Having represented a few disgruntled employees, he was well aware of the Machiavellian strategies of employers.

“A pittance!” Dean’s face was an ugly knot of fury. Harry’s concern mounted. Dean was on his third scotch.

“See…these two young guys, Taylor and Meltzer, have this project.” He sneered. “It’s supposed to revitalize the firm. St. Timothy’s Church on Highland Avenue wants to sell to a shopping-mall developer, but they have to get it zoned commercial before closing. These guys are a couple of interior decorators, with all their artsy-fartsy stuff.” Dean waved his hand in the air, then poked his finger at Harry. “But underneath, they’re still a couple of fucking cutthroats,” he muttered.

Dean lapsed into black silence. Harry prodded gently. “Have you gotten legal advice?”

Dean shook his head. “Not yet.” He stared into his drink. Fury rose in his voice. “But you know what really kills? No loyalty from Katharine. Another outmoded concept of mine. Jesus, I mentored the woman. Without me to protect her, her career would have been in the toilet. How’s that for gratitude?”

Harry shook his head in sympathy. Everyday he was thankful to be spared the bloodiness of corporate warfare.

“That bitch! Did plenty to advance her career.”

“What does she do at Orion?”

“She used to be my assistant.” Dean’s lip curled. “I should’ve seen it coming. She’s gunning for my job. Thinks she can bring new life to a worn-out firm.

“Yes, I’ve heard of her,” Harry said carefully. Marjorie had said little about her niece Katharine. It was just as he always thought. Names mentioned in wills often took on surprising life on the death of the testator.

“Tough lady. Lots of times, when she was my assistant, I could have taken advantage.” Dean held up his hands in innocence. “Never touched her once…a real ball-buster, though.”

The two men sat in silence. The bar was getting hot. Suddenly, Dean said, “Ever hear of a lawyer, Tony McKeown?”

Harry had read a few articles by McKeown in the Law Times about a new master plan for the city. He had been alarmed at his zeal for a vision of cool, sleek lines, uncluttered by any trace of humanity. Harry shrugged. “Just heard of him. He’s an urban planning lawyer. Why?”

Dean  chuckled.” “He’s the shark who gulps up all the little fish. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers almost under Harry’s nose. His friend was getting pretty drunk.

Dean  leaned across the table and said, “Some of his buddies are planning a takeover of Orion. Nobody’s safe there.” He smiled bitterly, “Not even Taylor and Meltzer. They don’t know McKeown hates their planning concepts.”

Harry patted Dean’s arm. “Listen, if you need help, call me. You’re entitled to a good severance.”

“You’re goddamned right, Harry. I will.” His voice was fierce, but Harry saw his eyes were damp.

As Harry pulled into his driveway, thoughts of Katharine and Dean faded and his mind returned to Marjorie. Someone else had been in the house at two o’clock. The evidence had been there: spilled teacups, and chairs pulled up around the bed. The cop had seemed out-and-out lazy, and too quick to decide that her death was from natural causes. In order to make the funeral arrangements, he needed to know whether there would be an autopsy, as he had suggested.

As he opened his front door, he heard the telephone ring. Katharine Rowe was on the other end.

“She was an amazingly strong woman,” Katharine sighed after he told her of Marjorie’s death. “At least she’s at peace, now.” There was a pause. Harry wondered if she were overcome with grief. “I haven’t seen her for almost two weeks. Was anyone with her when she died?”

“Not that I know of. But someone was there earlier.”

“Who?” Katharine’s voice was sharp.

“I don’t know.” Harry hesitated. “Of course, I called the police, and they came with the coroner.”

“The police?”

“Yes. It’s customary when someone dies alone at home.”

“Where was Rosie?”

“Marjorie said she was letting her go for the afternoon.”

“Strange,” Katharine said. “I was in meetings all day, and I called you back as soon as I could. I didn’t know she was unwell.”

“I didn’t either, but of course, people do die suddenly, without warning.”

“I suppose.” Katharine sounded unconvinced.

 Harry hesitated and then said, “I did ask the police about an autopsy.”

“What on earth for? Do you suspect something?”

Harry hesitated. “No. I just wanted to be sure I could go ahead with the funeral arrangements.” He hoped he sounded convincing. Briefly, he closed his eyes.

A certain serenity had filled Marjorie’s bedroom. As she lay in repose, his first thought had been: She got what she wanted…a neat and peaceful passing. He frowned. On the stairs, it had seemed as though something was wrong, like reverberations after a violent clap of thunder. He had asked the officer about an autopsy. Now he had to know what happened.

He heard Katharine sigh. “Listen, Mr. Jenkins, I’ve had an absolutely exhausting day. Meetings nonstop all day, and more tomorrow. What happens next? Are you her executor?”

“Yes. I’ll be in touch the next day or so.”

“Good. Well, thank you. Goodbye.” Katharine hung up.

She’s all business, he reflected.

Looking about his empty kitchen, he sought refuge from his circuitous thoughts. Leafing through yesterday’s paper, he was surprised to find Katharine’s photograph. He read the article about her award for tireless efforts in support of Emma’s Hostel for Women.

Perhaps Dean did not have the whole picture of Katharine. Harry was sympathetic to the plight of women in the so-called man’s world. The survivors almost became a parody of the men with whom they competed.

Where the hell is Laura? he wondered. Hardly ever here! Sadly, he remembered a time when she would turn to him for comfort. Her climb on the corporate ladder had been perilous. Sometimes all he could do back then was to hold her close in bed at night, until she drifted off. Now, at the top of her profession, maybe she did not need him anymore.