Ladies' Night by Andrews, Kay (find a book to read TXT) 📗

a mug and filled it with coffee before handing it over to the lawyer.

Mitzi sat down beside Grace. “I’m seriously thinking of hiring your mother as a private investigator. She’s that good at asking dumb questions and drawing people out without raising their suspicions.”

“That’s what happens after you’ve tended bar for thirty years,” Rochelle said modestly.

“What did you find out?” Grace begged. “Give me the nitty-gritty, please. I’m dying here.”

Mitzi nodded deferentially to Rochelle. “Go ahead.”

“All four of those gals, Ginger, Angie, Becky and Harriett, had your judge in their divorces,” Rochelle said.

“The Honorable Cedric N. Stackpole Jr.” Mitzi put in.

“Right. Harriett Porter, she was the oldest one, probably around my age, her husband owns a Cadillac dealership up north in Indiana, but they live down here full-time now,” Rochelle reported. “She discovered her husband was having himself a fling with a male stripper in Tampa. She waited for him outside that club, and when he came outside at two in the morning, she sort of lost her temper and accidentally ran over his Gucci loafers with her SRX Crossover.” Rochelle took a sip of coffee. “I’d never heard of such a car, but Harriett says it’s sort of a cross between a real Cadillac and an Escalade. Escalades are what all the rappers drive, Harriett says…”

“Mom!”

“Right,” Rochelle said, without missing a beat. “Stackpole threatened to throw Harriett in jail for aggravated assault, which her lawyer later told her was bullshit, because her husband did not want to have it get in the papers that he’d been run over in the parking lot at Jeepers Peepers. Instead, Stackpole told her she had to attend divorce-recovery group. With Paula.”

“And the rest of the women in the group?” Grace asked.

“Different stories, same endings,” Rochelle said smugly.

“By the time I got here last night, dear Harriett was fairly intoxicated,” Mitzi said. “Lovely lady, but I think she probably needs AA more than she needs divorce recovery. I sat with all the girls for a while; then, I volunteered to make sure Harriett got home safely.” She raised an eyebrow. “While she waits for her divorce to get settled, she’s living in an enormous rented mansion on Siesta Key. Before I walked her to her door, I casually asked how much she’s paying for her divorce-group sessions. Grace, she’s paying nine hundred dollars!”

“That’s three times as much as the rest of us,” Grace said.

“I know,” Mitzi said. “I was as stunned as you are. It didn’t seem to bother Harriett. I think she’s actually enjoying the sessions with Paula. She apparently hasn’t made a lot of friends since moving here. Before I told her good night, I asked for her lawyer’s name.” Mitzi sighed happily. “It’s Carlton Towne. He’s senior partner in my old law firm, and a prince of a guy. I put in a call to him first thing this morning.”

Rochelle pushed her steno notebook across the bar to Grace. “Here’s the name of the other gals in Harriett’s group. They even have a name for themselves. The Diva Divorcées. Cute, huh?”

Grace read the names scrawled on the notepad. “Are these their lawyers’ names, too?”

“You bet,” Rochelle said.

“I only know one of these lawyers personally,” Mitzi said, running her finger down the list of names. “And because we have to do this very quietly, with an abundance of caution, I’m not going to call them until absolutely necessary.”

Grace nodded. “Just what is it you’re planning to do?”

“First, I’m going to call Betsy Entwhistle and chat with her about Wyatt’s experience with Stackpole. Then, I’m hoping Carlton Towne will be as frank with me as his client was last night. Then, I think it’s time we talked to the other members of your group, Grace, to see what their lawyers have to say. If that goes well, I think we’ll probably have enough to file a complaint against Stackpole with the state Judicial Qualifications Committee.”

“How long will all that take?” Grace asked. “After next week, we’ve only got one week of divorce camp left. Then, Stackpole’s supposed to rule on my divorce. What if he finds out what we’re up to?”

“Leave that to me,” Mitzi said. “We’re going to gather every bit of documentation possible, and I can be very, very discreet and low-key.”

53

“Grace, can I speak with you privately for a minute?” Mitzi asked. Rochelle gave them a questioning look but retreated to the kitchen.

Mitzi lowered her voice. “How’s the condo coming along?”

Grace blinked. “Good. I went shopping Thursday and picked up a lot of things to bring in some color, since you’ve got so much white. I don’t want it to look too sterile. You’re going to have turquoise and lime green, and pops of tangerine…”

“How about the bed? I paid nearly two thousand dollars for that mattress, you know.”

Grace felt herself blushing and glanced toward the kitchen to make sure her mother was not within earshot. “The mattress is amazing. Totally.”

Mitzi smirked. “I just like knowing I’ve gotten my money’s worth.”

“Trust me,” Grace said. “You did.”

*   *   *

Wyatt pulled up in front of Luke Grigsby’s house shortly after ten. He’d averted his eyes as he passed his old house, just down the street. It pained him to see the smudged windows, the stack of yellowing plastic-wrapped newspapers at the edge of the driveway, and the forlorn tire swing hanging from a rotted rope tied to a spindly tree in the side yard. Mostly, it pained him to see the “Bank Owned: For Sale” sign in the weed-strewn front yard.

Losing the house to the bank, he realized, was probably more painful than losing Callie.

He glanced at the clock on the truck’s dashboard, then at Luke’s front door and, as always, felt the same familiar, simmering resentment replace his previously cheerful, even joyous, demeanor.

According to the written agreement they’d hashed out during their separation, Callie was supposed to deliver Bo to Jungle Jerry’s on the days Wyatt had custody. In reality, Wyatt usually ended up going to get his son on what