“He said this one suited you better.” Clark grinned, his teeth flashing white against his deep brown skin.
In front of my eyes, Brooke mellowed. I couldn’t describe it if I tried, but she watched him and her shoulders went down. Yeah, Clark was seriously good-looking in the golf attire. Wearing a suit in court, he made juries swoon. Smart guys are sexy.
I escaped down the hall, went past the conference room and restrooms, and paused between two office doorways. The one to my right remained vacant, while Pauley had taken over the left. “Hi, Pauley,” I said.
He looked up from a stack of files, two candles burning on the bookshelf behind him. “Hello, Anna. Have you discovered who stole Nana’s ornate boxes?”
“Not yet.” I leaned against the doorjamb, appreciating his perfectly brushed dark hair and ironed green shirt. An older laptop had been pushed to the side. “Have you ever heard of a Zippy O’Bellini?” The name didn’t sound familiar to me, but Pauley was autistic with savant qualities, and his memory and recollection far surpassed mine.
“No.” He patted the file folders into order. “Why do you ask?”
I exhaled. “He’s the attorney representing Gloria Walton in a suit against Nana.” Had she seemed to know his name? Now I wasn’t sure. Nana didn’t lie, so why was I reading into everything?
Pauley looked away. “I can research him if you like. You like. Like. I am not a detective, but the Internet is open for everyone. Everyone. The Internet. Not the Matrix.” He grinned and then sobered. “Could be the matrix. Maybe.”
Yeah, he wasn’t wrong. Maybe we were all living in the matrix. “Thank you. Also, see if you can find out anything about a man named Cormac Coretti.”
Pauley looked up at the ceiling. “Cormac is Irish Gaelic. Coretti Italian. Interesting. Like Annabella Fiona Albertini. Both. Irish. Italian.”
Was it the day for my entire name, or what? “Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“I have no idea, but if you can find him online, please let me know. I appreciate it.” I left Pauley, continuing down the hall to my office, next to the kitchen. Curious, I poked my head in to see a lovely maple desk with ornate carvings along the edges. “Wow,” I breathed, striding inside to slide my hand across the smooth wood. Walking around it, I noted drawers on both sides. I loved drawers. Tugging my phone from my bag, I dialed Rory and reached a recording of his voice telling me to leave a message or not. I did. Thanking him profusely.
Happily, I sat and pulled out the drawers, noting he’d filled them with the contents of my other desk. The one not nearly as beautiful as this one.
I loved my family.
Twin candles burned in my bookcase across the room, filling the space with the scent of vanilla. I kind of liked it. My phone buzzed. “Anna Albertini.”
“Hi. It’s Sheriff Franco.”
I sat back in my newish leather chair. “Hi, Sheriff. Did you find the thief of Nana’s boxes?”
“No. Not yet. Devlin has the CCTV for the entire town, and he’ll share if they find anything. For now, I need to let you know that Gloria Walton has filed a criminal complaint against Fiona O’Shea.”
I tensed. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I wish.” For the first time, he sounded as if he’d lived all of those years that showed on his face. “I already interviewed her, so I don’t feel it necessary to do so again. Plus, I’m sure her attorney would object.”
“She surely would,” I agreed. “This can’t be serious.”
He was quiet long enough I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. “I think it’s incredibly stupid, but the prosecuting attorney has already called me.”
Oh, absolutely not. “We have got to get Backleboff out of office,” I snapped. Brad Backleboff had moved to small town Silverville from California, gotten divorced, and then run for Gem County prosecuting attorney. Nobody had been paying attention, and the guy actually won. He seemed to just want to make a name for himself.
“Maybe.” A chair creaked over the line as it sounded like the sheriff sat in his old leather chair.
I wanted to sputter. “You can’t tell me you’re going to arrest her.”
“Nope. Not without an arrest warrant, which I have no intention of obtaining right now.”
I sat back, my mind reeling. “What is the possible crime?” This was out of my experience.
“Gloria swore out her statement first thing this morning. Says Fiona O’Shea intentionally contaminated her entry, and Backleboff claims that it was food tampering under Idaho Code § 37-115.”
I rubbed at my forehead and quickly typed the statute into my computer, bringing it up and reading quickly. “That’s absurd, Sheriff. There’s no evidence, no pie, and no intent. It’s a misdemeanor statute, and even if it weren’t, the concoction was thrown out after the contest.”
