One
Fiona Murphy glaredat the mass of papers on her desk and the files stacked in her overflowing in-box. She had cleaned it out on Thursday. When she left that evening for a three-day weekend, the box had been empty and her desk neat and organized…
She’d only been gone for aday. One day, to visit her brother Ethan in Chicago.
One fricking day.And it was like File-Mageddon on her desk.
This was exactly the reason she hated office jobs—other than the eight-to-five, sit-at-a-desk part.
Pushing a corkscrew of auburn hair out of her eyes, she girded her loins and reached for the top file.
The mobile phone on her desk buzzed. Caller ID saidNath, Nath & Powell.
She frowned. A CPA firm? An agency? Maybe it was Winona calling from her office—she’d started a new job last week.
Well, whatever. Anything instead of digging through files and bills or assessing purchase orders.
She answered the call. “This is Fiona Murphy.” She shoved her reading glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. It was vanity that made her squint most of the time when she looked at menus or the newspaper—whoever heard of a thirty-year-old needing reading glasses at a +2.5 magnification?—but when she was at work, and actually needed to see, she had no choice but to wear them.
“Ms. Murphy, this is Gideon Nath,” came a smooth, professional male voice. “Legal counsel for the late Nevio Valente.”
Legal counsel. Not an accountant after all. Then the last part of his introduction clicked in her mind.
“ThelateNevio Valente?” Fiona put down the order for office supplies she’d picked up to peruse and potentially approve, giving the caller her full attention.
“I’m sorry if his death is a shock to you,” the voice went on crisply, “but—”
“I probably would be shocked if I knew who Nevio Valente is—er,was,” Fiona admitted wryly, pushing up her slipping glasses again. “But since I don’t—”
“You don’t know Nevio Valente?” For the first time, the inflection of the voice changed from unruffled professionalism to show a hint of surprise.
“No, I’m afraid I have no idea who that is.”
“Nevio Valente,” he said, enunciating slowly and clearly this time, as if she were a child trying to learn a foreign phrase. “You’re certain you don’t know him?”
“I believe I’ve said that twice already, Mr.—is it Nath?” Fiona frowned.Thatname actually sounded more familiar than Nevio Valente.
“This is Fiona Murphy, of 355 35th Avenue Southwest, Wyoming, Michigan?”
By now she was beginning to giggle. She’d leaned back in her desk chair and was twirling her reading glasses. “Yes indeed—this is Fiona Murphy and that is my address. I believe you were the one who called me.”
Mr. Nath continued in his cool voice, which no longer sounded ruffled but mildly offended. “Yes, well, it’s odd that you don’t know one of the wealthiest men in Grand Rapids. Especially since he happened to name you in his will.”
“Shut the front door.Seriously?” The brightly patterned glasses squirted from her fingers and clattered onto the desk. “I’m named in hiswill?”
There was a sigh on the other end of the line that implied this phone call was taking too much of his time. “Ms. Murphy, perhaps you’d better come around to my office so we can discuss this in detail. I—”
Then it hit her. “Wait—this is a joke, isn’t it?” She started laughing. “Are you punking me? Is this the radio?”
“Ms. Murphy, much as I wish it were, believe me, it isnota joke.” The voice became even chillier and more pompous—which had the opposite effect on Fiona as he no doubt intended. She tried to suppress her laughter, but the man sounded like one of those automatons on Westworld whose program had gone awry.
She could picture him: the industrious and oh-so-pompous Mr. Nath, sitting at a massive oaken desk in his tight-collared suit with wispy, thinning hair combed neatly in place. His wire-rimmed glasses would be firmly entrenched on the bridge of his nose just beneath thick, hairy brows with a few wiry grey hairs springing out like little spider legs.Hisglasses wouldn’t dare slip, as they’d be wedged into soft, pink skin.
“I think it would be best for you to come to my office—that’s Nath, Nath, and Powell—so that we can discuss this in a more…succinct manner. Tomorrow at eleven?”
She almost said yes, but the imp that always got her into trouble decided to be contrary. “No, I’m so very sorry, but tomorrow won’t work for my schedule.” She made her voice match his in coolness. As if she were very, very busy.
“Very well. Does Thursday at three-thirty work better for you?” His voice was uber-polite and calm, and she could almost imagine him clenching his teeth.
