Vicki and I both got licensed as Arizona attorneys, and we ousted the public defender, solved the murder, and exonerated Harmony. After the dust settled, Vicki, AJ and I decided we had something between us. Vicki was now a licensed attorney, and AJ was a community college girl who’d just helped solve a murder case, and I knew it was time to work for myself.
So, we opened Sedona Legal.
We’ve come pretty far in the last eight months, popping up on the radar of Sedona’s movers and shakers. Now, we were personally asked by the city council to participate in the Independence Day film project, so I guess that was a good thing.
Vicki and I reached the parking lot of Steele Productions, and I clicked the key alarm for my black BMW. The parking lot had been full when I came, so I was forced to park in a deserted area behind the building.
“Oh my God,” Vicki suddenly gushed as we neared the car.
My heart raced at her words. Had my tires been slashed or something?
“Would you look at that?” she added.
She pointed to a window with the blinds open. I had to look twice to see what she was talking about, but once I did, I saw it. In a back office of the building, I clearly saw Jerry Steele and Allison.
And they were making out.
“Whoa,” I snickered. “This film just got some plot.”
“I don’t get it,” Vicki said as we unlocked the car and got in. “She’s young and super hot. Why is she with him?”
“The infamous ‘casting couch,’ maybe?” I replied.
“For a Sedona independent film project?” Vicki scoffed. “I don’t think so. Then again, you never know how far some girls will go to be a star.”
“Hmm,” I said.
Something about it still didn’t seem right. I pulled out of the parking space, and through the window I saw they knocked over a printer, and their make out session was over.
“Well, whatever it is,” I chuckled, “they suck at it.”
“I say we go home and show them up,” Vicki purred as she put her hand on my thigh.
I winked. “We do have a sordid colonial love scene to rehearse.”
Chapter 2
The next morning, I was relieved to be safely in my office, away from men in tights, vocalizing actors, and philandering directors.
Our office space was in a quaint area of downtown Sedona, known for its vintage appeal. We were a wooden storefront in a strip center, sandwiched between a vintage record store and a smoothie shop.
I pulled up to the curbside parking, and the smoothie shop manager was outside.
She gave me a dirty look and then hurried inside.
I rolled my eyes.
When I first looked at our office space, I heard she had her eyes on it, too. She sold beaded jewelry on Etsy and wanted a physical shop. I outbid her, and now she hated us. Now, none of us can ever go into that smoothie shop for fear of having our drinks spit in.
I walked inside the office, and AJ and Vicki were already there.
“Any ideas on a peace offering for the lady next door?” I asked as I set my bag down on my desk.
“Oh, Lord,” AJ groaned. “I saw her at the post office a couple days ago, and she wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Geez,” Vicki replied from behind her laptop. “It’s been eight months already, and we’ve got a five year lease. Get over it, lady.”
“Never come between a woman and her high end beaded jewelry,” AJ laughed.
“Apparently,” I muttered.
Our office was a two room space, a main room and a conference room. We had real wood floors and freshly painted white walls, and the front wall was composed of old fashioned tiered windows.
When we first signed the lease, I had to go back to California for six weeks, and in the meantime, Vicki decorated it. She did a great job, too. She went with the contemporary style minimalist theme, all white and chrome, which went well with the flooring. We had three white desks in the main room, white swivel chairs, and chrome task lighting. On the far side of the room, there was a kitchenette with a single serve coffee maker and a mini-fridge.
The conference room had an old wooden dining table and whiteboard. It also had the fear of Johnny Law hovering like a ghost. Many witnesses walked into that room of their own free will and left in handcuffs.
I pulled out my laptop and opened my e-mail for the day’s take. Vicki and AJ were discussing a new independent designer opening a store in our shopping center, and I was just about to enter the conversation, when a visitor popped in.
“Perry,” I smiled, “haven’t seen you in a while.”
One of our deceased clients named me in his will as the executor of his estate’s trust. The trust had decided to invested in Perry McGrath’s kombucha plant, and now we’d all been talking back and forth about a facility update.
“Yeah,” he said as he smiled and took a seat. “I’ve been meaning to come by and see where we are on that budget proposal I sent over.”
Perry was in his early thirties, with long brown hair that was usually pulled into a rough ponytail. He had gauged earlobes, a tongue ring, and lived on a
