Prologue
Eight years earlier
Arthur Forrester squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened the door of sparkling glass in front of him. He did his best to ignore the black-silk wreath that hung in the center of the door. He exhaled and wished that he had not. The overpowering smell of incense gagged him. He hated the somber music that was playing in the background. He hated the place. Hated all funeral homes.
He dreaded going into the viewing room to see the deceased decked out in whatever fashion was current to someone in the entertainment business.
Twice he had met the man laid out in the coffin, also known as the deceased, aka David Duffy. The first time he had met him, they shook hands, sized one another up, and moved on. The second time Forrester had met him, Duffy was with his star client, Garland Lee, and Forrester had taken an active dislike to the man. The truth was, he was jealous and resentful of David Duffy and his close professional and personal relationship with the woman whose phenomenally successful career he managed. He hated the way she deferred to Duffy, hated how she constantly sang his praises, hated that they were personal friends, with all that entailed. But most of all, he hated the fact that Duffy made millions of dollars by representing America’s beloved songbird, while all Arthur Forrester got were billable hours, along with the misery he suffered from having to listen to Garland go on and on about how wonderful Duffy was to her and her family.
Arthur Forrester looked around. For some reason, he’d expected to see a gaggle of people crying and wailing. All he saw was the man’s widow, dressed in the dark clothing widows wore, sitting with her two sons. Their expressions were set, their eyes dry. All three had rosary beads in their hands. Across the aisle was Garland Lee, who was crying and sniffling into a wad of tissues. Her adult children were next to her. They all looked distressed, but holding up. David Duffy had been the godfather to all of Garland’s children.
He looked around to see who else was in attendance, but all he saw were people who looked like professional mourners—people the funeral parlor hired to sit and look like relatives, so the deceased would have a proper send-off. He thought the whole thing was barbaric. He hated funerals with a passion.
No way was he walking up to that bronze casket to stare down at a man he barely knew and heartily disliked. No way in hell. He sat down next to Garland and tapped her arm. She looked at him in a daze—seeing him, but not seeing him. For some reason, he had expected Garland to throw herself at him for comfort, but she did not do that. What she did was get up and walk up to the bronze box and reach out to touch her business manager’s hands, which held a rosary. A strangled sound escaped her lips. He risked a glance at Duffy’s wife, who was staring off into space.
Forrester squirmed in his seat. He itched for some reason. He looked around at the sea of flower arrangements. He knew without a doubt they were all from Garland. The scent was overpowering. He had to force himself not to gag. Three days of this, with two viewings each day. Garland would stay the whole time until they kicked her out. That’s just how she was. He had been Garland’s lawyer for fifteen years, and he’d often wondered from time to time if she was secretly in love with David Duffy. To this day, he didn’t know if she was or not. The fact that Duffy’s family members were sitting by themselves, and Garland was sitting on the other side with her children, just seemed to confirm his notion that something was off.
Forrester’s thoughts raced. Maybe he could step in and take over from David. Garland’s upcoming tour would have to be canceled. Knowing Garland as well as he did, he knew she would go into a deep funk and be unable to perform. Never mind that millions of dollars were at stake. She wouldn’t care. Who better than he to take over the reins? After all, he was a lawyer, Garland’s lawyer. Duffy’s 20 percent commission would automatically become his, plus his billable hours. He might have to give up the billable hours in favor of the 20 percent commission. Or maybe he could actually wear two hats and do both. How hard could that be? He could actually see Garland embracing the idea.
Forrester snapped to attention when the mortician, clad in a black suit and smelling of Aqua Velva, approached the new widow and her family. He leaned over and spoke softly. He watched as the family got up and left. Now the black suit was heading toward Garland. He spoke to her, but from where Forrester was sitting, it looked like she was ignoring him. The black suit then motioned to Garland’s children. Come and get your mother. The children got up and led Garland from the room, her feet dragging every step of the way.
Outside, in the cool evening air, Forrester put his arm around Garland’s shoulders. It was time to make nice, time to step into David Duffy’s shoes. He could do it. Not only could he do it, he would do it.
“Garland, look at me,” Forrester said, cupping the singer’s face in his two hands. “I’m going to follow you home because I need to get all the files and records you have that David worked on. I know this is not the time and the place, and I know your heart is breaking, but it has to be done. I will take care of it all and leave you and your family to grieve. Trust me, I’m your lawyer. We’ve been together longer than you’ve been with David. You know I’ll do right by you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Garland’s head bobbed up and down.
Forrester decided it wouldn’t hurt him at that moment to sweeten up his words. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Garland. I know how much you loved and relied on David. He left some very big shoes to fill. I promise to do my best and not upset you in the process.”
“All right, Arthur,” Garland said wearily.
An hour later, Arthur Forrester carried the last of David Duffy’s records and files, or, more accurately, Garland’s copies of David’s work, out to the trunk of his late-model Mercedes. He had a release in his possession that Garland had signed in front of two witnesses, her housekeeper and her gardener.
Arthur Forrester was now the business manager of one of America’s most famous singers, Garland Lee. He had just secured his future with the millions he would pocket over the coming years. And, best of all, he could now tell the sanctimonious bastards at the Ballard law firm to go to hell. Or not. Billable hours would only add to his coffers.
Talk about moving to Easy Street, which would be his new address from this day forward.
Arthur drove away from Garland’s home, his spirits as high as they’d ever been in his entire life. As he drove away, he mentally rehearsed the press release he would send out to the entertainment media over the next few days. Decorum dictated that he wait at least until David Duffy was firmly planted six feet under.
Arthur drove to his home on what he now kept thinking of as Easy Street, feeling better than he’d ever felt in his whole life.