W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

Hester. You must be Kinsey.”
    “I am. Nice meeting you,” I replied as we shook hands across her desk.
    Hester glanced at the old-fashioned wall clock. “Ms. Benjamin should be here shortly. Why don’t you have a seat? Can I get you anything? Water or coffee?”
    “I’m fine, thanks.”
    I settled on a camelback sofa upholstered in a caramel velvet that looked good enough to lick. On the small brass-and-glass coffee table in front of me there were copies of Forbes magazine, the ABA Journal , the New York Times , the Wall Street Journal , five law-related publications, and three issues of People magazine, a guilty pleasure of mine. I skipped the issue devoted to Mike Tyson’s latest difficulties and bypassed the lengthy coverage on caring for aging parents and the painful decisions attendant thereon. Given my orphan status, the problem wasn’t one I’d have to face. Henry and his sibs might be octogenarians and nonagenarians, but they had always been self-sufficient, and if one of them suffered a medical malfunction, the others would rally with unfailing support.
    I picked up the October 10, 1988, issue and turned to the story about Jersey Girl Patti Scialfa replacing actress Julianne Phillips in Bruce Springsteen’s heart. The article detailed the development of the romance, which surfaced a scant three years after Springsteen and Julianne Phillips were married. The story moved from Patti Scialfa’s early career to her current state of bliss and ended with gushings of the “they were clearly meant for each other” variety. Oh yeah, right. Like that marriage would last.
    I heard the elevator doors open and looked up as a curly-haired adolescent boy emerged in bicycle shorts and running shoes. He had no helmet that I could see and I wondered if his mother knew. His shirt was plastered to his back with sweat and his blond hair was a mass of dripping ringlets. As he passed, he glanced at me. “Are you Kinsey?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Burke Benjamin,” she said. She wiped her right palm on her pants and then held it out. As soon as we shook hands, she moved on, saying, “Come with me.”
    I set the magazine aside and followed. She held open her office door for me and then closed it behind me.
    “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
    I chose one of her two leather-upholstered visitor’s chairs, thinking she’d excuse herself and retire to the ladies’ room to shower. Instead, she opened her bottom desk drawer and pulled out a dark red terry- cloth bath towel. She kicked off her running shoes, peeled off her gym socks, and crossed her arms so she could pull her soggy T-shirt over her head. Shirt dispensed with, she peeled out of her bra and bike shorts. “Hester says you’re a friend of Lonnie’s.”
    “I am,” I said, eyes averted. She wore thong underpants. This is a sight that doesn’t inspire confidence when consulting an attorney in the matter of half a million bucks.
    She was completely nonchalant as she toweled sweat from her neck and underarms. She wadded up the damp shirt and tossed it in her bottom desk drawer, simultaneously taking out a clean bra, which she hooked into place, followed by a white T-shirt that she slipped over her head. She removed a neat navy blue skirt from a hanger and zipped herself into it, then slipped on heels without hose. From another drawer, she pulled out a hair dryer that was apparently permanently plugged in. She bent from the waist and blew her hair dry with a protracted blast of hot air that riffled papers on her desk. By the time she returned the dryer to the drawer, she looked completely put together and her manner was properly professional, including the ringlets, which offset her no-nonsense air.
    “What can I do for you?”
    “I find myself in a peculiar situation and I need help.”
    “Well, you came to the right place. What’s up?”
    I removed Dace’s will from my shoulder bag and passed it across the desk to her.
    The document was only four pages long. She took her time, leafing back and forth through the pages until she grasped the whole of it. She placed the document on the desk in front of her. “Nice. I take it the two of you were close.”
    “We’re related, but I never met the man,” I said.
    “Well, I guess that pretty much eliminates any claim by his three kids that you exercised ‘undue influence’ over dear old Dad,” she said. “What’s the nature of your relationship?”
    “I’m guessing we’re second