DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY. Ken Salter
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he spoke in a low-keyed, fatherly manner to his frightened, betrayed and vulnerable “Berkeley Girls.” Then again, Mrs. Simmons was clearly not one of his girls. I was curious why she would choose to hire a frumpy lawyer like Nate instead of a high profile, slick divorce attorney who curried favor with the moneyed and sophisticated crowd in San Francisco and Marin County across the bay.
While Nate struggled to appear lawyer-like to summarize her case and Mrs. Simmons’ attention was focused on him, I appraised our new client on the sly. My eyes registered one captivating feature after another. Her long legs were absolutely stunning; she’d showcased them in the latest sheer French hosiery with little diamond designs. Her stockings hugged her muscled calves and tapered down to perfectly formed ankles which were accentuated by low-heeled pumps with straps at the back.
Mrs. Simmons was not dressed provocatively. Everything she wore was in excellent taste and designed to stimulate the imagination as she moved. Her winsome features were suggested and accented rather than displayed. She was classy, unlike many of Nate’s women clients who came to the office in drab and dowdy outfits or ones designed to reveal more than a healthy glimpse of cleavage and flesh.
Mrs. Simmons was in a class all by herself. She had no need to use artifice to attract interest. She would have had the same mesmerizing effect on Nate and me if she’d been dressed in a sweater and slacks or even a business suit. She exuded a simmering, primitive sexual heat that couldn’t be contained by garments. It was pulling me like a magnet. While I counted the pile of hundred dollar bills, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. My every glance revealed something new to fire my imagination.
She was well aware of her effect on us; she didn’t flaunt her wares like so many women often feel compelled to do. She had to know that her short, breezy, summer frock with straps that criss-crossed her back and a hem that stopped six inches short of her kneecaps was more enticing than a dress that showed more skin. Dressed as she was, heads were going to turn at forty yards. Dressed in anything more risqué, Gloria Simmons would cause a riot.
I tried to concentrate on Nate’s monologue but only bits and pieces were getting through. I struggled to stop imagining what Mrs. Simmons would look like once those flimsy little back straps were unhooked and allowed to slide slowly down her body.
What I did learn was that Mrs. Simmons had married into one of Oakland’s two large families that controlled the black mortuary business. I don’t know much about the casket-to-graveside trade other than it’s very lucrative. Everyone is going to die eventually, but in Oakland, one of the murder capitals of the West, lots of folks were dying like flies. When you have the regular folks dying on time and then add the kids and young men who were killing each other in gang warfare and turf disputes, business had to be jumping in our local mortuaries.
Nate finally got around to me in his monologue. “I’ll have my assistant run a check on ownership of your husband’s many business interests. Title to the real estate and mortuary business will be on file with Alameda County tax authorities. Other assets may be harder to trace. We’ll try to put a monetary estimate of what the funeral home business is worth, but without access to your husband’s business records at this stage, we can only speculate. Should we proceed with an action for divorce or legal separation, we will be able to compel him to reveal his assets. You’ve indicated your husband is very secretive about his business dealings. Do you think you might access your husband’s tax returns?”
“My husband owns the business with his brother and they don’t use an accountant. They do all their tax filings themselves with the help of bookkeepers they employ in the funeral home.” Mrs. Simmons now raised her eyebrows and gave me a penetrating look as if to say, “How do you plan to pierce the veil of secrecy surrounding my husband’s business affairs?” Ball in my court.
I was surprised initially at the way she’d coolly sized me up when I walked into the room. She didn’t seem to notice or care that I, like she, was a person of color. Usually African-Americans acknowledge each other in subtle, perceptible ways, even in the presence of the Man.
“You must gather your information very discretely, Mr. Bean. My husband must never suspect that he’s being investigated. He and his brother are very tight-lipped about their business. If Jimmy had the slightest suspicion that I might be preparing to divorce him, he’d throw me out of the house and cut me off without a dime.”
I smiled my smile and nodded my understanding. I had a hard time imagining Mrs. Simmons destitute for long. But with five thousand dollars in big bills sitting on my lap, it was no time to play coy.
“Did you ever file a joint tax return with your husband?” I asked.
“No, Jimmy always files a separate tax return. He doesn’t bring any of his work home either. Keys to the business are locked in his briefcase at all times.”
I had to suppress my amusement. If Mrs. Simmons couldn’t get her hands on her husband’s set of keys with all her charms, there was no way in hell I was going to get hold of them or access to his business records either. “Is your separate tax return also prepared by your husband’s business?”
“No, I do it myself. It’s really not complicated. I still have some residual income from my modeling and I do a Schedule “C” for my design income; it hasn’t amounted to much yet, but I’m hoping that will change soon.” She locked her eyes on mine, raised her eyebrows and flashed me a playful smile. I wondered whether this whole little song and divorce dance was calculated to capitalize her new business venture.
“What do you do for money to run the house and pay your bills? Is there a joint checking account?”
“Yes, we have a joint checking account. Jimmy usually puts five or six thousand in it each month so I can pay the charge accounts and our personal bills. The cars, pool service, liquor and entertainment expenses are all paid by the business.”
I nodded my understanding at how they ran their personal affairs. The two brothers were no fools when it came to claiming business expenses. They must have been writing off as much of their personal expenses as they thought they could get away with to stiff the taxman.
“Do the checks to pay house and car expenses come from the mortuary’s business account?” Nate interjected.
“Yes, until just recently,” Mrs. Simmons replied. “Jimmy has always made the deposit, but something at the mortuary changed that. He gave me a sealed envelope to drop in our bank’s night deposit and said it was urgent. Before dropping it in the slot, I opened the envelope to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake in the amount he posted in the checking ledger. He was acting so strangely I was afraid he might have bungled the figure and I didn’t want to overdraw the account.”
“The amount was correct, but I was shocked to see they’d changed banks. The check was drawn on an HSBC Bank in Hong Kong and not our local bank that the business has used for years. With almost all of the mortuary’s business coming from the African-American community, it seemed really odd they’d change from a local, black-owned bank to a Chinese bank abroad. I also found it strange that the check was countersigned by a new bookkeeper named Jennifer Wong.”
I could tell I was going to like working for Mrs. Simmons. She was no fool when it came to sniffing out which way the wind was blowing. What were black funeral home owners doing with a Chinese bookkeeper? She’d have access to confidential information about the business affairs of this very private, secretive, highly profitable family enterprise.
“You mentioned something happened at the mortuary recently which changed your husband’s pattern of deposits. What did you mean?” I asked.
“I learned that there’d been a fracas in the mortuary’s parking lot that shook up Jimmy and his brother. There was some kind of argument and a shooting. Jimmie got a call late at night that I overheard. He thought I was sleeping. They must have asked him what to do with a body because he instructed them to take it inside and stow it in a refrigerated locker until Jimmie could get there.”
“Did Jimmy say to call the police?” I asked.
Mrs. Simmons gave a sardonic laugh. “No, he said just