Happy Birthday, Cousin Natalie: Cousin Natalie, #1

By L. K. Bryant

It's not a real party until somebody calls the cops.

 

Natalie Rozanski has it all: a terrific job, a long list of friends, and a Rolodex that the mayor would kill for, but it's her fortieth birthday, and darn it, she shouldn't have to work even if it is the firm's chance to snag a lucrative investment banking deal.

 

Yet instead of a birthday cake, she gets clients fighting, a house fire, and her boss's body at the bottom of the staircase.

 

Suddenly everyone's acting oddly: Her best friend is packing a gun, her dance teacher knows way too much about disabling a car, a sleazy paparazzi is following her around, and confidential files go missing from her office.

 

Now the cops are watching her, everyone's secrets are being exposed, and somebody is trying to arrange for Natalie's next party to be a wake...

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. K. Bryant
• Release date: Jul 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223317029

Book preview

Happy Birthday, Cousin Natalie

Copyright © 2021 by L. K. Bryant

Cover design by Teri Barnett/ MysteryCoverDesigns.com

For all the good people in the securities industry, for their friendship.

And for all the bad people, for their inspiration.

Chapter 1

Hurricane Natalie began with the blowing open of doors and a big noise—but this door was the door to Peter Barclay's office, and this noise was:

I need a will!

Peter set down the stock trade confirms he was reviewing and tipped his glasses forward so he could stare out over them with his most intimidating Are you addressing me? expression.

Natalie, he said, "everybody should have a will. But why do you need one right now?" Natalie Rozanski was Peter’s cousin, one of the very few people he would speak to without an appointment even though he was on a deadline.

I'm almost fifty, she replied. Wait—what year is this?

It's 1992. You're forty-three.

If I had a son, he'd be—your age!

Peter snorted. He'd be half my age. He wouldn't even be in college yet.

"My son's going to college? He can't be; by the time he graduates I'll have to go to the ceremony in a wheelchair."

Natalie, you don’t have a son. And even if you did and even if he was going to college, by the time he graduated you'd only be forty-seven.

See? I'm almost fifty! Natalie frowned, leaning forward onto the back of one of the guest chairs. "So when can I get you to make me up a will? You do do wills, don't you?"

Peter sighed. The stacks of brokerage statements, confirms, and exception reports on his desk—the We go to trial next week and we need a smoking gun documents—had been pushed out of his consciousness as firmly as though Natalie had opened the window and allowed them to fly all over Ventura Boulevard.

Well, it’s not my normal thing, but I can do a simple will, if you know what you want. I have the form books. We can go through them together and you can figure out what you want to do with all your—stuff. Peter visited Natalie's apartment quite often, and even so he could come up with no more definitive description of her personal assets. Do you know who you're going to leave all that to? Maybe a museum? Natalie was prone to sudden and unpredictable bursts of enthusiasm for hobbies and studies varied and exotic. A year later her magic props, noh masks, or Spanish-language tapes would be banished to a U-Stor-It and supplanted by something new. Peter had no idea where her storage unit was, or how big it was, or how she kept so much stuff in it. She refused to tell him. Peter had to admit it hadn't helped matters when he started referring to the mysterious storage locker as the Batcave.

Natalie waved his question away, shaking her short brown hair impatiently.

We can talk about that later. Right now I have a favor to ask you.

If it involves leaving this office in the next four days, I can't do it. This case— Peter tapped the papers on his blotter for emphasis—has me tied up.

Natalie tilted her head to get a better angle on the statements, which from her perspective were upside-down. Is it a securities case? Anybody I know?

It’s s churning case, and I hope it’s nobody you know—unlikely as that is. Seventy-year-old widow. The broker turned over her account eight times in thirteen months. You probably see it all the time.

Natalie straightened. "Not at my firm, sweetheart."

But for all I know, you do know the broker, so— Peter turned over the top page. This is one of the few jobs I've had since I got to L.A., and I need to make an impression.

That's exactly what I'm talking about! I need you to make an impression.

Unless it's at Grauman's Chinese, I'm still busy.

This won't interfere with your trial. It's not until a week from Thursday. We're having a reception at the boss's house—it's really a dog-and-pony show for our new private placement. It's the first one we've ever offered all on our own, so it's a really big deal for the firm. And I need a date.

Peter wasn't sure he'd heard her right. A date?

Well, not a date, really, but an escort. I'm sort of an official hostess, and I need somebody cute to hang on my arm, or at least be there with me. You don't really have to hang on my arm. I'm going to be chatting up clients—making sure they're too drunk to know what they're doing so the brokers can pick their pockets. You can network; there's going to be some lawyers there.

Peter sighed again, softly. Natalie had hit him where he lived—literally and figuratively. The life of a freelance, be it a paralegal, or a writer, zookeeper, whatever... depends on contacts, those mysterious people who know people, and he was new to the tight-knit L.A. legal community. Natalie, on the other hand, seemed to possess an inexhaustible resource of acquaintances in all walks of life, from attorneys to, well, zookeepers.

How Natalie had developed this network, her far-flung web that made the Internet look like a small Midwestern telephone exchange—and for which certain successful Hollywood agents would have traded half their client list—was yet another facet of  the Mystery called Natalie. Other than a couple of family weddings in the Eighties, he'd hardly ever met his outgoing cousin until he abruptly relocated to Los Angeles after he'd found his wife giving a very personal deposition to a name partner at a San Francisco law firm. Being California, if he'd just let it go, the affair probably would have fizzled in a few months and he might even have gotten some work from Susan's new friends. But he'd thrown a fit, pitched a scene, and locked himself out of any possibility of making a name in Bay Area legal circles.

Southern California, on the other hand, was as culturally and professionally distant from San Francisco as is possible while remaining in the same state. The brash new media money of Los Angeles took a perverse pleasure out of the northerners' disdain (while simultaneously attempting to recreate the Silicon Valley), and what shocked the City by the Bay barely raised a ripple south of Santa Barbara.

Peter hadn't intended to tap into Natalie's net, or even become part of it, but somehow her mother, his Aunt Lori, had heard about his troubles, and his move, and obtained his new phone number almost as soon as the AT&T installer had left the apartment. There was no question whence Natalie had inherited her formidable information-gathering abilities. And once she made contact, Natalie was a social black hole—she pulled everything to her with the inexorability of gravity.

Okay, I'll—what?

Peter broke off; Natalie was looking over his shoulder as if she'd spotted something outside his window. He turned, not knowing whether to expect a Peeping Tom squirrel or the Boston Strangler. It was neither; in fact, it was nothing at all.

What're you looking at?

Natalie bit her lower lip. Um, nothing, she finally said, the distracted look still lurking behind her eyes. I was just wondering how you and Tommy are going to get along.

Tommy? he echoed. You mean—what was his name? Stowe? That guy at your company with the condoms and the—what was it—Lifesavers?

Yeah. She wouldn't look at him. He called it his Sex Slinky.

Peter exhaled slowly, rolling his eyes. People who thought they could abuse other people because of their superior job status really ticked him off. He couldn't imagine why. I'm sure we'll get along famously.

You'll be the first, then.

Well, how bad can he be? I thought he only harassed the female employees.

Depends on how you define harassment. He never directly harasses anybody, as far as I know. He kind of makes jokes to the firm at large and dares anybody to be especially offended. All the girls think he's a jerk, but nobody wants to come right out and say so—he's the son of one of the guys who started the firm. And the firm itself is a great place to work.

Oh, yeah, Peter agreed with exaggerated enthusiasm. 'So, Ms. Hill, other than the harassment, how did you like working for the judge?'

Natalie's hands fluttered and fell to her sides in frustration. No, really. His jokes are crude, but they're no worse than in any other firm. They're still all run by the Old White Boys Network. If you want to work in this industry, you have to put up with some of that stuff.

"You don't have to," Peter interrupted, more sharply than he had intended.

No, of course not. Natalie shook her head. And Tommy knows just how far he can go. She sighed mournfully. Besides, why would he want to harass a woman who's almost fifty?

You're nowhere near fifty! Peter snapped, again with more asperity than he'd intended. Your birthday's not until...

A week from Thursday, she replied unhappily. I'll be at the party. But at least I won't be alone...

Peter closed his eyes in resignation. All right, I’ll go. Nobody should have to spend her birthday working, but at least I can be there for you.

Oh, thank you! Let me buy you a coffee in that little garden place down the street.

Failing to take the bait, Peter waved good-bye, his nose already buried deep in the stultifying intricacies of annual turnover rates and cost-equity ratios.

Chapter 2

S o, what? You're into tap now?

I make my stage debut at the annual school recital next month. Natalie assumed an offended air. And is there something wrong with the idea of me tip-tapping my way across the stage and into the arms of fame?

Courtney Barstow snickered into her blue cheese and walnut salad. I didn't think fame was what you wanted to find yourself in the arms of.

The English major in me cringes when you talk like that.

Courtney's reply was buried in a mouthful of salad. Not that she needed salad for lunch, Natalie reflected wryly, since Courtney at a youthful twenty-eight had yet to discover the ravages time and gravity could wreak upon a body.

And if you keep on eating lunch salads and skinless chicken, you never will, she finished aloud.

Courtney made a face and raised her eyebrows. Are you on that again? Believe me, I'd trade places with a twenty-year-old any day. She put down her fork and looked intently at her friend. Besides, if you're any indication of what forty looks like, I think I'm not going to worry too much.

Natalie tried to hide her blush by looking down at her own Chinese chicken salad. Courtney had the flawless skin and shimmering hair of a magazine ad, and a figure that stopped men on the street.

Forty-three, she corrected almost inaudibly. "And this is the end result of literally every exercise regimen known to man. Step, spinning, kick-boxing, aerobics, tai chi—that was a disaster—yoga, jogging, walking, swimming—"

And tap, Courtney finished for her. "I've seen those dance videos; that stuff looks hard."

It's not easy, Natalie admitted. And I do work up a sweat. But I just can't seem to lose these last ten pounds, no matter what I do. I think they've adopted me.

Any cute guys in tap?

Natalie giggled. Oh, yeah, and they all think the other guys are cute, too, if you know what I mean. She surveyed her lunch partner, daintily stabbing bits of walnut with her fork. What about you?

Courtney waved away any discussion with her fork. Not a thing. The guys all want young bimbos with big... portfolios.

Well, yeah, if you want to date guys in the industry, Natalie admonished her. Stockbrokers are notorious dogs—just look at Tommy, Jr. Okay, let's not. But look at you: tall, slender, you've got all that curly brown hair with those cute reddish highlights that weren't there when I met you—I've seen supermodels at the Ivy who wish they looked like you.

You've been to the Ivy? Courtney put down her fork to stare across the table. Really? Who'd you see?

Well, one of my clients took me to dinner there after I told him to liquidate before the crash in 2008. We didn't really see anybody famous—well, okay, Michael Douglas—but that’s not the point.

Picking up a last piece of lettuce, Courtney frowned at her empty plate, then glanced guiltily at Natalie.

That was too good. You want another one?

Natalie laughed out loud and Courtney struggled to keep a straight face.

Hey, who's paying for this, anyway? Natalie demanded. Just because you watered my plants for a few days doesn't mean I'm feeding you forever. One week's watering equals one lunch.

Courtney looked downcast. Does that include dessert?

Natalie looked at her watch. It was two o'clock; after market hours, but plenty of time to play a Denise Austin exercise tape before dinner. She signaled for their waiter.

So—what are you wearing to the reception?

Courtney giggled. Your timing is impeccable. Okay, never mind the dessert.

Natalie waved her hands in denial. That's not what I meant. And you could use a few pounds to fill out your dress anyway. Get one of those miracle bras and drive the guys up the wall.

Courtney's eyebrows went up. What kind of outfit do you think I'm planning to wear? she asked. It's bad enough we have to be there in the first place—none of the married women was asked. She looked away for a moment. I'll bet the whole thing was Tom Jr.'s idea.

Natalie started to say something, but there was a sudden tension in her Courtney's manner that made her pause. She waited for her friend to come back to her, to throw out one of her laughing one-liners that would show she'd put whatever was bothering her out of her head. Natalie liked that about Courtney; the ability to toss off problems like a bad hat. Too many people in the money-making business were worried about tomorrow's Dow, or next week's employment report, or even next quarter's triple witching hour, when all the options and futures contracts expired on the same day. Courtney never let the job get to her, even when she had to spend twelve hours on the phone making a hundred cold calls to land one new client. That was why Natalie had gotten out of retail as soon as she could; she still had clients, but only a few, very loyal for the past advice she'd given them. She'd been wise enough to follow her own advice, so that now she could live comfortably without worrying about where to find either money or the time to pursue her hobbies.

When Courtney was not forthcoming, Natalie grasped the bull gently by the horns.

How come every time I mention Junior you get that cloudy look on your face?

Cloudy?

Like I just rained on your parade.

Oh. Courtney made a brief attempt to resurrect her old expression. That waiter must have gone to Switzerland for the dessert tray.

Don't change the subject. What did Junior do?

Courtney shook her head. It's nothing. In fact, it was pretty much what you just said—about the miracle bra and all that. But the way he said it...

Natalie’s answer was so low Courtney almost missed it.

I'm going to kill that jerk.

Natalie, Courtney hissed. It wasn't that big a deal. He was talking about the reception, and how good I was going to look—and that was okay, I could handle a compliment, even if it was from a jerk. But then he started to get more specific, like—like—well, he called it 'theorizing,' but I think it was more like fantasizing. About what I'd look like in this or that outfit.

Or out of it, I'll bet, Natalie growled.

Well, he didn't go that far, but I wouldn't bet he wasn't thinking it, Courtney agreed. Finally I told him I didn't like it, and that was when he used that bit about 'theorizing,' like he was just trying to help me figure out what to wear. She slowed down, catching her breath. From some other guy, I wouldn't have minded at all. With some guys—like Jordan Daniels maybe—it could have been fun. A calculating look came over her. Hmm, come to think of it, that might not be bad at all.

Natalie laughed. Well, that was a quick turnaround. Got our eye on a young entrepreneur, do we?

Well—only from a distance. We've never been introduced; I've only seen him with Junior a couple of times. But he is cute, tall, blond, looks like he played football...

I see, Natalie said smartly, warming to the subject in more ways than one. It figures that every time he comes in, I'm too busy to check him out. And how old is this captain of industry?

Oh, a little older than me, a little younger than you, Courtney informed her airily. But don't let that stop you, maybe he likes mature women.

Natalie drew back and stared across the table like Joan Crawford. That's it, young lady. No dessert for you!

Can't have it anyway, Courtney sighed. I'm not tapping my way to health and happiness, the way some people are these days.

Natalie shrugged. Why not? I only just started, and believe me, a three-footed camel isn't any less graceful in tap shoes than I am.

Courtney bit her lip, but the residue of a giggle escaped, like steam from an overheating radiator.

What's so funny?

Oh, nothing. But the way Courtney was rolling her eyes betrayed her ill-disguised inner humor. Natalie pierced her with an Out with it! glare, and Courtney surrendered with another sigh, assuming a martyred look. All right, she agreed. "But you can't tell anybody.

When I was sixteen, I was Miss Washington County. For the talent portion of the contest, I tapped.

Natalie's face went completely blank. When she spoke, only her lips moved.

How long? There was a dangerous edge to her voice.

About forty-five seconds.

No, I mean how long were you a tap dancer?

Courtney grinned weakly. About...five years?

Natalie absorbed this information with the silent concentration of a German nun investigating the sudden and miraculous appearance of a dead mouse in the school chapel's baptismal font.

And you were planning to tell me this—when?

Um—never?

So soon? Natalie asked in mock surprise. And here I thought you didn't  to join in my school's dance-a-thon, the only thing that keeps it going from year to year. I beg your forgiveness for mistaking your altruistic enthusiasm for a merciless desire to see your best friend making a complete fool of herself on stage in front of a couple of hundred strangers while you professionally critique every minuscule misstep from the safety of your dark third-row seat. And here all along you were planning to step in at the proper moment and lift our foundering presentation with your starring performance, bringing down the house and scooping up hundreds of dollars in extra donations in recognition of your sheer brilliance!

The deer in the headlights across the table gulped. I was? 

Hurricane Natalie had swept up another victim.

Chapter 3

Stephen Herriott waved his visitor to a chair while his secretary quietly closed the door to his office behind her. When she was gone, he produced a small, polished wooden box and a silver ashtray. He opened the box, withdrew a cigar, and closed the box without offering a cigar to the younger man across the desk. Then he gave an inquiring look.

Tom Stowe, Jr. shrugged. It's your office. Personally, he hated the thought of being closed in a room while his boss sucked on a cigar. Not because he didn't like the smell—he enjoyed a good Cuban as much as the next man—but because it was illegal to smoke in an office in this town. And Herriott knew it. That was why he was doing it. He was daring Stowe to make an issue of it, daring him to add fuel to the fire that was burning inside his boss, the flame that was about to scorch him for whatever imagined (or more likely, real) shortcoming Herriott had a hard-on for now.

The likely reason for his being called onto the carpet this morning was the same as it had been last week, and the week before. It wasn't the short hours, the casual shirts—and it sure wasn't the way he treated the girls in the office! It was because Thomas Stowe, Sr., Tom's illustrious scion and co-founder of this firm, had possessed enough foresight to put together a retirement package right at the start of the dot-com era and plop his aging butt out on the beach and watch the surfer girls while Herriott, plodding and blindered, was still commuting to work every day from Hancock Park. Well, his chauffeur commuted. Still, Herriott's butt was stuck to an office chair while his partner's was in a beach chair, and the old man couldn't handle it.

Similarities between the two senior partners remained, though; enough to remind Tom irritatingly of his father whenever he was called into Herriott’s office—especially when he was called into the office. Stephen Herriott was the same age as Tom's father, working every day in severe gray pinstripes and the same biweekly haircut from the same barber down on Pico Boulevard that he'd been going to for 30 years.

Tom favored the more relaxed look practiced by the techno-millionaires and young lawyers from Manhattan Beach: West Hollywood-sculpted hair, Italian suits, loafers. After hours he let loose even more, sometimes courting his clients in jeans and $100 polo shirts—when in Rome, and all—but he'd never let Herriott know that. He wouldn't understand, any more than he'd understand that you didn't do a deal today just by working at it. You had to play alongside these guys, too, do everything they did. Sometimes it meant clubbing, sometimes it meant a midnight pick-up basketball game at the Y, and sometimes it meant visiting a certain side street in Inglewood to pick up some Andean candy to pass around at parties in the Marina. You did what it took.

The brokers are here by six, Herriott reminded him. That's when the market opens. I expect my managers to work the same hours.

At least the old bore wasn't beating around the bush. I'm not a broker. The people I work with aren't even out of bed at six A.M. Herriott's stare didn't waver. Stowe lost his patience. "I'm up till midnight wining and dining these guys to get them to give us some of their business! You want these Marina millionaires, you've got to see them when they're awake. That means clubbing and bars and things that people don't do at six in the goddamned morning! They don't even leave their offices till nine at night!"

Don't swear at me, boy, Herriott warned. And don't raise your voice to me.

Tom leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes wander over the office and the furnishings while he got his blood pressure under control. It was like this every time; talking to Herriott was just like talking to his father. Or rather, listening. You didn't talk to these guys; they talked, you listened. They intimidated; you backed down.

The whole office was intended to do that, to let you know that this was a Successful