Heat Wave: The Magic Jukebox, #4

By Judith Arnold

Caleb Solomon's office air conditioner is on the fritz. Although not his choice, he winds up meeting with a difficult but profitable client in the pleasant chill of the air-conditioned Faulk Street Tavern. It's there that high school teacher Meredith Benoit finds him. Due to a silly prank, her job and her reputation are in jeopardy. She needs a lawyer, fast. But the Magic Jukebox starts playing "Heat Wave," and a hot wave of passion crashes over Caleb and Meredith, catching them in its undertow and carrying them off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judith Arnold
• Release date: Dec 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781940547107

Book preview

HEAT WAVE

The Magic Jukebox: BOOK FOUR

Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Keiler

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

To learn more about the author, and to sign up for her newsletter, please visit her website

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

About the Author

Chapter One

Caleb Solomon usually didn’t meet with clients in bars. But he couldn’t survive another minute in his office. The central air conditioning had conked out mid-morning on a June day that was aiming to break a heat record. By two in the afternoon, he felt as if his bones had melted into molasses. He’d shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and his shirt hung limp and damp from his shoulders. His hair weighed heavily on his scalp, as if a dead squirrel had dropped from the sky and landed on his skull.

He vowed to send a big donation to some reputable environmental organization. If this was what global warming was like, it had to be reversed. Immediately.

He’d badgered Megan about calling the landlord, but that hadn’t stopped him from marching down the hall to the reception area in the middle of the afternoon and badgering her some more. I’ve phoned twice, she’d assured him. I left a message both times.

Call him again, Caleb had demanded. Tell him we’re hiring our own repair service and sending him the bill. Hell, he’d added, mopping sweat from the nape of his neck with a swipe of his hand. Tell him we’re adding a surcharge to the bill for our pain and suffering.

Why don’t you leave? Megan had suggested, as placid as he was stressed. In her sleeveless cotton dress and strappy sandals, she’d seemed cool and composed, her hair in a bouncy pony-tail and her face wearing not a single drop of perspiration. Heather and Niall found excuses to clear out. You can, too.

Heather Chase, one third of Chase, Mullen and Solomon, Attorneys-at-Law, was in court that day. Niall Mullen, another third, was down in Boston, taking a deposition. Caleb would have welcomed any excuse to leave the sauna-like suite of offices the firm rented a block from the heart of Brogan Point’s downtown.

He found his own excuse to leave shortly after his latest bout of complaining to Megan, when Jerry Felton phoned and asked for a meeting. Fine, Caleb said. I’ll come to Town Hall. You’ve got functioning AC, don’t you?

You can’t come here, Felton mumbled, his voice hushed to a near whisper. I don’t want people to see me meeting with a hot-shot lawyer.

Caleb let the adjective pass without comment. If people considered him a hot-shot, good for business. Good for his rep. Good for scaring the opposition.

That Brogan Point’s town manager needed to meet with a hot-shot lawyer without being seen whetted Caleb’s curiosity. Well, here’s the situation, he explained. Our AC is dead. In another ten minutes, I’m going to be dead, too. Heat stroke can be fatal, right? You can’t come here.

Meet me at the Faulk Street Tavern, Felton suggested. If anyone sees us, we’re having a friendly drink.

Two-thirty in the afternoon was a bit early for a friendly drink, although Caleb supposed he could order an iced tea, or an iced coffee—or an iced anything. And to his great relief, he discovered once he entered the downscale bar near Brogan’s Point’s waterfront, the vents in the tavern’s ceiling were blasting deliciously chilled air into the room, cooling him down.

Felton arrived a few minutes later. He had no difficulty locating Caleb, seated alone in one of the booths, since the place was nearly empty. A couple of grizzled retirees sat at the bar, nursing beers and arguing loudly about the Red Sox’s pitching roster, and a well-muscled guy worked behind the bar, rattling bottles and glasses and occasionally adding fuel to the Red Sox debate by insisting the team hadn’t had a decent pitcher since Pedro Martinez left. Felton headed straight for Caleb’s booth and slid onto the seat facing Caleb.

Caleb didn’t know the guy well. But Jerry Felton had been the town manager since before Caleb had set up his law practice with Heather and Niall here in Brogan’s Point four years ago. You couldn’t live in a town this size and not know who ran it, at least not if you paid passing attention to the way things were run. As far as Caleb could tell, Felton managed the town competently. He was a barrel-chested man, too old to have political aspirations beyond the corner office in the Town Hall of this cozy seaside community on Massachusetts’s North Shore. His thin brown hair was fading to gray and his face was square and bluff, as if carved out of granite and then layered in putty to soften the edges.

Caleb pulled his laptop from his briefcase, and Felton quickly waved his hand, signaling Caleb to put it away. We’re having a friendly drink, he reminded Caleb. We’re just talking. Okay?

Sure, Caleb said carefully, sliding the laptop back into its padded pocket. What are we talking about?

They were talking about nothing until Felton ordered two iced teas at the bar and carried them to the table. Then he leaned toward Caleb, as if about to confide some hideous secret. I’m going to be indicted, he whispered.

Caleb’s eyebrows arched, but he said nothing. Instead, he squeezed the wedge of lemon garnishing his iced tea, letting its tart juice drip into the glass.

Word is, a grand jury is handing down an indictment. When I knew I was under investigation, I conferred with Joe Tenney—the town’s attorney. Do you know him?

Caleb nodded. He’d never had dealings with Tenney, but he knew who the guy was. Caleb had sat in on a couple of town meetings during which Tenney appeared to be napping. Not the sort of lawyer the term hot-shot would apply to.

Once it became clear where the grand jury was headed, Joe said that because he worked for the town, there was a conflict of interest and he couldn’t represent me. He told me to hire you.

Maybe Tenney was sharper than he appeared, Caleb thought with a private smile. Anyone who recommended him had to possess at least some intelligence. What’s the indictment about?

Embezzling from the town’s pension fund. Here’s the thing: a couple of months ago, I became aware that our town treasurer, Sheila Valenti, was skimming money from the pension fund. I fired her. I was kind, though. I did it discreetly. I put out an announcement that she was leaving the job for personal reasons. I thought we’d worked out an arrangement for her to pay back the money she’d taken, a little at a time. I wanted to spare her a scandal. And the town, too.

Caleb nodded again.

"So, instead, she turns on me and accuses me of embezzling the money. There’s no evidence. No proof. Of course there isn’t, because I didn’t do it. But now we have a case of he-said-she-said, and the grand jury decided to believe her. All because I was kind-hearted and discreet and tried not to trash her reputation."

If she embezzled money from the town, Caleb pointed out, maybe she deserved to have her reputation trashed.

That’s not how I operate, Felton said. I’m not a vengeful person. I was trying to leave her with something salvageable, so she could get another job and repay the money she’d stolen.

What kind of money are we talking about? Caleb asked.

Eight hundred sixty thousand dollars, give or take.

That was a lot of money in a small town’s budget. So. Caleb desperately wished he could pull out his laptop and start typing notes. Instead, he took a sip of iced tea. You haven’t seen the indictment yet?

No. I just heard from Joe that it was going to be handed down soon.

Okay. I’ll visit the DA’s office tomorrow and find out what we’re dealing with. He hoped the District Attorney’s office had air conditioning. Even more, he hoped the air conditioning in his own office would be fixed by then. In the meantime, don’t say anything. Don’t talk to the media.

The media?

"You’re the town manager. The press is going to be all over this story. If anyone calls you—a reporter, a blogger, anyone—tell them to contact me. Don’t say a word without my permission."

Not even the local—?

No one, Caleb emphasized. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. You’re a politician, you’re used to schmoozing the press and vice versa, but no. I’ll also need all the pension fund financials covering the period the embezzlement took place. I’ll need to view your personal bank records, your tax returns. The DA has gone through these records with a forensic accountant. We’re going to do that, too. I’ll get everything he’s got, we’ll go through it, and we’ll put together a defense. Okay?

Felton looked marginally calmer. Because I’m innocent, he swore. I didn’t take that money.

And my job will be to prove that. Assuming you even get indicted. All we’re operating on right now is some second-hand information from Joe Tenney. Who naps during town meetings, Caleb almost added.

So...you’re going to get me off?

I’m going to give you the best defense I can, Caleb promised. I’ll call you after I’ve talked to the DA tomorrow. Okay?

Thank you. Layers of tension melted from Felton’s face until he was actually smiling. Joe Tenney says you’re the best.

Courtesy compelled Caleb to return Tenney’s compliment. The man has good judgment, was the best he could muster without lying.

It took a few minutes of idle chatter about the record-setting June heat to see Caleb and Felton through the rest of their iced tea. Once Felton’s glass was empty, he stood, shook Caleb’s hand, and headed for the door. As soon as he was gone, Caleb pulled out his laptop, turned it on, and opened a new file. If Annie, the office paralegal, were here, she would have been taking notes for him. But Caleb was on his own.

Not a problem. He knew how to take notes. If aspiring novelists could sit in Starbucks, pounding away on their laptops, he could sit in a neighborhood pub and pound away on his.

Bar patrons began to drift into the tavern. He checked his watch: a little after four o’clock. Folks getting off work early, he guessed. The woman who owned the place materialized behind the bar, tall and sturdy, her shoulders nearly as broad as Caleb’s. He wondered if she’d been an athlete in her youth. Most likely basketball, given her height. Niall had grown up in Brogan’s Point; he’d probably know her story.

Caleb did his best to block out the crescendo of chatter rising around him. A group of young women gathered in the booth behind him, bitching about their boss. They sounded indignant, but their words were seasoned with laughter. A group of fishermen carried the scent of the ocean past Caleb’s table en route to the bar. A waitress paused at his table and asked if he wanted a refill of his iced tea. Thanks, he said with a nod.

He wasn’t sure how long the woman hovering near his table might have been there before he noticed her. His peripheral vision snagged on a flowing, flowery skirt. His nostrils caught a faint whiff of fresh roses—and then lemon as the waitress set a fresh iced tea down beside his laptop. He thanked her and she moved on to the table behind his, her tray bearing an array of festive-looking mixed drinks, the sort of sweet-with-a-kick stuff Caleb avoided whenever possible.

The skirt moved a step closer. He noticed long, tan legs.

Excuse me? she murmured.

He finished typing a sentence with a flourish of clicks, then glanced up. Then stood as courtesy kicked in again. He was raised well. He knew to stand in the presence of a lady.

And she was a lady. A woman, yes, but also a lady. He could tell by her perfect posture, her neat blond hair pulled back from her face, her smooth, even features. And her voice. In just those two words, he heard velvet and bourbon—not quite a drawl, but a definite Southern inflection. In this proud New England town, you didn’t hear Southern accents that often.

Are you Caleb Solomon? she asked.

I am.

I phoned your office. The woman I spoke to there said I’d find you here. I hope you don’t mind.

The air conditioning in my office is broken. I came here to cool off. What can I help you with?

She gestured toward the banquette previously occupied by Jerry Felton. May I?

Please. He waited until she was seated, then searched for the waitress. Can I get you something to drink?

No, thank you. I won’t be long. I just... Her voice trailed off. She pursed her lips and folded her hands primly on the scarred wooden tabletop. I’m sorry. This is just...very awkward for me.

What was awkward? Meeting him? Meeting him in a bar?

I believe I need an attorney, she said.

Okay. He settled back in his seat and smiled. One of his most useful traits as a lawyer was the ability to listen. And to wait. Wait long enough, and people often wound up saying exactly what you needed to hear.

The first thing he heard was a song. Someone must have fed a coin into the antique jukebox that stood on the far wall of the tavern. According to town lore, it played only songs old enough to have been recorded on vinyl. The song that spilled out of the speakers right now was a smooth rock-and-roll oldie. The Allman Brothers, he identified it. Even though the steamy afternoon air had annoyed him when he’d been at his office, the lilt of the band singing about a sunny day made him grin.

Oh, I love this song, the woman said, a smile skimming her lips. Then she grew serious again. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be wasting your time. My name is Meredith Benoit, and I have something of a problem.

Okay, he said again, still waiting.

What happened was... Her fingers flexed. Her nails, he noticed, were perfectly oval and polished to look like pink pearls. I was sunning myself at the town beach on Sunday. Please don’t lecture me about skin cancer. I was wearing a lot of sunblock.

Lecturing her about skin cancer wasn’t on his to-do list. He loved the way women looked when they were sprawled out on a beach in their skimpy swimsuits, their skin glistening beneath the summer sun.

I just wanted to get a nice, even color, she explained. I have to be a bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding in August, and the dresses she picked for us are, well, not entirely prim.

It occurred to Caleb that while he’d enjoy observing Meredith Benoit sunbathing, he’d also enjoy checking her out in a not entirely prim dress. Her outfit now tended toward the prim end of the scale; her blouse had elbow-length sleeves and a rounded neckline, and her skirt’s hem covered her knees. She was willowy and fit, the skin of her throat smooth, her eyes blue. Her nose was narrow, almost too small for her face, and her chin formed a delicate point. He bet she would look damned good in something less prim than what she was wearing right now.

The thing is, she continued, the bridesmaid’s dress is scooped low in the back.

Bridal fashions held little interest for him. But he remained patient, figuring she’d get to the point eventually.

I don’t want a tan line across my back. She swallowed, her cheeks flushing slightly. So I was lying on my stomach on the beach, and I opened the strap of my bikini top to prevent a tan line.

He nodded, trying not to allow her long-winded story to bore him. Tan lines. Scooped low. Sunbathing. Sooner or later, she’d get around to telling him something useful.

"Anyway, I