Heart Vs. Humbug

“That’s her. That’s Mab Osborne.”

The impoliteness of the man’s pointing finger and his whiny, condescending tone immediately irritated Octavia. She knew at that precise moment that she was going to thoroughly dislike Dole Scroogen.

Scroogen’s tall companion shifted his eyes from Octavia to her grandmother. He took a step toward Mab. His deep, rich voice vibrated through the small waiting room like an ominous drumroll.

“Mrs. Osborne, I’m Brett Merlin.”

Brett Merlin? Octavia felt a small jolt of surprise as she instantly recognized his name. Could this really be the Magician of corporate law standing before her? The one whose name every attorney whispered in polite reverence? Well, well. No wonder the guy exuded the aura of the anointed.

Octavia watched, her initial interest heightened even more, as Brett Merlin slipped a sheet of folded paper from his pocket. He held it out to Mab.

“What’s this?” Mab asked as she took the paper from his hand.

“It’s a copy of a cover letter I faxed to the FCC this morning, Mrs. Osborne. I’ve also sent by Federal Express a two-hour tape of recorded highlights from your ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ programs. I’m demanding the FCC revoke your radio license on the grounds of lewd and immoral content.”

Octavia couldn’t have been more surprised at Brett Merlin’s words than if the man had suddenly announced he was from Mars. He was bringing her grandmother up on a morals charge before the FCC? She didn’t know whether to laugh or have this obviously overrated fool of an attorney committed.

Before she could respond to either impulse, a photographer suddenly jumped out from where he had been hidden on the other side of a partition and snapped several photos of Mab. The unexpected flashes from his camera also blinded Octavia, who was standing just behind her grandmother.

By the time Octavia could see and think straight again, it was too late to do anything. The Magician, the Scrooge and the photographer had all vanished—right out the door of her grandmother’s radio station.

* * *

“OCTAVIA, I‘M NOT standing still for this FCC threat.”

Octavia smiled. That sounded just like the fearless, independently competent Mab that she had been admiring all her life.

She poured her grandmother’s homemade hot apple cider into both their cups and slipped in a cinnamon stick. The spicy fragrance filled the room and Octavia’s senses with the sweet, nostalgic past of other cold, overcast December days spent in this bright, cozy kitchen, baking Christmas goodies and stringing popcorn for the tree.

Octavia gathered up all the marvelous memories spilling out of her mind and set them firmly aside as she focused her attention on her grandmother’s perky head of silver-and-red curls.

“Before we talk about this FCC thing, Mab, tell me why you called last night and asked me to take the ferry over from Seattle this morning.”

Mab shook her straight shoulders, as though trying to disengage some annoying burden clinging to them.

“Because of the Scrooge, Octavia. All the trouble began with him.”

“What trouble?”

“When a group of us formed the Silver Power League five years ago, we did so in order to organize senior citizens and show them the kind of power we could wield if united against unfavorable legislation. One of our members gave us a ninety-nine-year lease to some land and an old barn that sat on it to use as our community center.”

“Yes, I remember visiting you there a couple of times when you first opened. You had cleaned and painted that old barn and made it very presentable. Now, what has this to do with Dole Scroogen?”

“He’s our new landlord.”

“And?”

“Remember those documents I asked you to look over nearly a year ago? The ones about the Silver Power League’s ninety-nine-year land lease?”

“Yes. You were worried about any loopholes. But the previous owner’s lawyer did a very good job drafting that protection clause against your eviction by a subsequent owner.”

“Except she didn’t anticipate that the Scrooge would levy a ridiculous rent on us.”

“Mab, he can’t do that. Remember my telling you? There are protection provisions in your lease that prohibit any rent being charged that is not commensurate with property value. The three acres of land your community center sits on has some value, but that old barn isn’t worth much.”

“You’ve been away too long, Octavia. We have a new Silver Power League community center.”

Yes, she had been away too long—too busy rushing through the arteries of her life to find the time to spend with this special person who had first put Octavia’s hand on life’s true pulse.

Octavia paused in the middle of her self-recrimination to let her grandmother’s last words register. “Wait a minute. Did you just say the new center?”

Her grandmother nodded.

“I kept looking at all this talent our members had just going to waste—retired architects, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, landscapers, decorators. Our members may be over sixty, but most are still vital and strong and possess a lifetime of experience and expertise. So a couple of years ago I decided to get them off their duffs and put them to work on some renovations.”

“But, Mab—”

Mab raised her hand to halt Octavia’s interruption.

“Yes, I know. Any improvements on leased land become the property of the landowner. But you have to understand, Octavia, at that time the landowner was one of our members and a good friend. She was charging us only fifty dollars a month in rent. We knew that on her death everything in her estate was to go to her only surviving blood relative—her great-nephew, Dole Scroogen. She told us that she had spoken to him and he understood her wishes. Plus which, we had the ninety-nine-year lease and we never thought...well, we never thought he would do what he did.”

“Go on, Mab.”

“When she died, we’d already torn down that old barn and broken ground on the new Silver Power League Community Center and the extensive greenhouse that goes with it. Everyone was so involved by then, so excited at what we were creating.”

“And Scroogen?”

“Months went by and he never even contacted us. We thought that like his great aunt, he supported us. We went blissfully on with our plans. The buildings are magnificent. We’ve all been so proud. We held an open house two months ago. Invited everyone in the community.”

Octavia was certain she knew what was coming. “Let me guess. Scroogen showed up then with an appraiser?”

Mab nodded. “Because of our improvements, the property is now worth far more than it was before. He and the appraiser spent hours evaluating every inch before he presented us with an astronomical monthly rent and a six-month deposit demand, all payable by December 1. We barely managed to scrape together December’s rent and half of the deposit demand. It cleaned out our savings. He served us immediately with a thirty-day eviction notice. If we don’t come up with with the rest of the deposit and January’s rent by January 1, we’re out.”

Octavia sipped her cider. It would be so easy to get upset. But getting upset was not going to help her grandmother’s predicament. Only clear thinking could do that. Besides, Octavia had never been one to waste time wringing her hands over what was already done.

“Scroogen must have plans for that land to be so bent on forcing you seniors out.”

“About two and a half weeks ago, the bulldozers arrived and started leveling the houses on the rest of the block adjacent to our center. I checked the county assessor’s office and found that the Scrooge owns all the property. What’s more, he began buying it right after he acquired his great aunt’s land and we started building the new Silver Power League Community Center. A public notice went in the newspaper yesterday. He’s building a condominium complex.”

“Right next to your community center?”

“Right over our community center. We invited the workers driving the bulldozers in for tea and cookies and pumped them. Their foreman is Keneth George, a native American of the Suquamish Tribe, and a real nice young man. He told us the Scrooge has approval to build a very exclusive, high-priced condominium complex on all the land he owns.”

“So he’s been planning on evicting you all along.”

“Absolutely. The far-end parcel connects to the water. He’s going to build a private ferry system to Seattle for the owners of the condos. Keneth said he’s going to use our new community center as a clubhouse and our greenhouse as an indoor garden for the people who purchase the units.”

Octavia shook her head. “And he let you build them for him. This guy is a real piece of work. Your Scrooge label fits him only too well. Is the site zoned for multiple-family dwelling?”

“Yes. There was a small four-unit complex in the middle that was inhabited by seniors before he bought them out and tore it down. Octavia, he’s setting up the whole block to be a new bedroom community for Seattle.”

“And concentrated residences such as this condominium complex mean lots more people. Demands for water, electricity, gas stations, fast-food restaurants, shopping centers, everything rises. That will change the whole atmosphere of your quiet little community.”

“That’s precisely what I’ve been telling my radio listeners this last week. The Scrooge’s plan to push out the Silver Power League is only the start of the breakup of our community. It isn’t just our community center’s one block that will be affected. Our whole neighborhood for miles will be changed. With the influx of the affluent commuters, property values and taxes will skyrocket until the seniors on social security will be forced out from homes they’ve lived in all their lives. Unless he’s stopped.”

“Are you getting much response to your radio broadcasts?”

“The station has been deluged with callers—of all ages, I’m happy to say—all asking what they can do. I tell them to write letters and make phone calls to the mayor, the chamber of commerce and Bremerton’s Community Development Department. Still, every morning the bulldozers arrive at eight sharp.”

“Since the condominium complex is already allowed outright by the zoning code, even if these officials were sympathetic, they have no legal recourse to stop it.”

“I know. When I called the mayor’s office, I was told his hands are tied.”

“This complex would be thoroughly welcomed in other Bremerton neighborhoods, inasmuch as it would bring the promise of jobs and new industry. But your neighborhood is such a poor place to put it. Have you mentioned that fact to the Scrooge?”

“I called him as soon as I heard about the condo complex. But he wouldn’t listen. He hung up on me.”

“Feeling secure in his legal rights, no doubt.”

“I don’t care about legal rights, Octavia, only what is right. I’m going to raise the money to meet the Scrooge’s rent demand. Our little corner of Bremerton is made up mostly of seniors. We know one another. We help one another. We’re holding on to our life-style and our neighborhood. We’re not letting ourselves be shoved aside.”

Octavia rested her hand on her grandmother’s arm and gave it a supportive squeeze.

“You say you’ve been running your broadcasts against Scroogen this last week?”

“Once, sometimes twice, a day, I plead for a call to arms—phone-calling and letter-writing ones, of course. The radio station is our communicator, the only immediate information and entertainment line I have to many nonambulatory seniors. They count on me, Octavia. That’s why this business about an FCC complaint is so disturbing. I originally called you hoping you could suggest a legal way to fight the Scrooge’s astronomical rent demand. But this FCC complaint is more serious. I can’t lose my radio license. The seniors’ communication lifeline can’t be cut off. What can I do?”

Octavia sent her grandmother a reassuring smile.

“Mab, don’t worry about losing your license. This FCC complaint is a joke. Merlin never really thought there was anything lewd or improper about your ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ programs. Nor does he expect the FCC to take the complaint seriously, much less revoke your license.”

“Then why did he do and say what he did?”

“My educated guess is that he staged that scene this morning for the sole purpose of getting the photographer to shoot some pictures to go along with a local newspaper story.”

“How do you know that photographer was from the newspaper?”

“Because this ridiculous, trumped-up charge is just the kind of sensational story a newspaper will eat up. Think about it, Mab. A seventy-six-year-old gal is being reported to the FCC because her ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ show is alleged to violate a morality clause. Could you ask for better?”

Mab laughed suddenly, relief rampant in the happy sound. “You’re right, Octavia! I don’t know why I didn’t see it. Even I would run a news brief on that storyline. It’s bound to give people a good laugh.”

“Yes, Mab. People are going to laugh,” Octavia said, not a vestige of humor in her voice. “And that’s the part I’m worried about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your radio campaign against Scroogen is being taken seriously. People are making calls and writing letters. What better way to draw attention away from the seriousness of what you have to say then by making you and your radio station into a joke?”

“I see. So the Scrooge had Merlin file that complaint with the FCC to make people laugh at me!”

“I doubt Scroogen thought of it. It’s too smooth and slick. I think this was the brainchild of the Magician.”

“The Magician?”

“It’s what Scroogen’s attorney, Brett Merlin, is called in legal circles, because he makes his clients’ problems just disappear. Merlin’s big time. He only takes on the momentous corporate cases that are considered worthy of his mettle. Scroogen is small fry. I can’t understand why Merlin is representing him.”

“You think that’s an important question?”

“If there is one thing I’ve learned in my legal career, Mab, it’s that the players in any battle are what determine how big that battle is going to be. Today’s Tuesday. Since the Sunday edition of the Bremerton newspaper is the one with the highest circulation, more than likely that’s the edition in which Merlin has arranged for this foolish FCC story to be run.”

“What can I do to stop the story?”

“Trying to stop it would be a waste of time. We have to think of a way to cut it down and shove it to an obscure back page. Mab, do you know where Scroogen got all this money to buy up the land adjacent to your community center?”

“He owns a septic installation and servicing company that ministers to much of Kitsap County.”

Octavia rose to her feet and snatched up her shoulder bag. “And now he’s into land development. That raises one or two questions right there.”

“Where are you going?”

Octavia paused on her way to the door to swing around and answer her grandmother’s question.

“To call A.J. She’s the head of a detective firm that my legal firm uses. I think it might be a good idea for her to do a background check on Scroogen.”

“You can use my phone to call her, Octavia.”

“No, I’ll use my car phone on the way to the Community Development Department. It’ll save some time. I want to do a little checking of my own on Scroogen’s construction permits for this condominium complex.”

“Then you’ll be back in plenty of time for dinner.”

“I’d better call you later and let you know.”

“You expect to spend all day at the Building Department?”

“No, but I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to discover why this magician has suddenly materialized on the scene.”

* * *

BRETT ANSWERED THE KNOCK on his hotel room door, impressed that room service had responded so quickly. When instead the gorgeous redhead who had been dancing in and out of his imaginings all day appeared on the other side, he blinked a few times to assure himself his eyes weren’t playing tricks.

“Good evening, Mr. Merlin. I’m Octavia Osborne,” she announced with a thick, liquid voice as smooth and sweet as cherry brandy. “I want to talk to you.”

She glided by him into the room—not waiting for an invitation—treating him to a tantalizing whiff of a subtle, sophisticated scent that reminded him of warm sands and seductive tropical breezes. Brett stayed where he was, holding the door purposely open.

“How did you know I was here, Ms. Osborne? I’m not registered under my name.”

“Yes, that was most inconsiderate of you. It took me several hours to track you down.”

Brett assessed the situation. The lady’s bearing, speech and dress all exuded a classy, cultivated air. But it was seven o’clock at night, she had walked uninvited into his hotel room, and this could very well be an attempt at entrapment.

It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had tried to get him into a compromising position for a little legal blackmail.

“Relax, Mr. Merlin. I promise I will not attack you,” she said as though reading his thoughts. “Unless seriously provoked, of course.”

She had turned to deliver those final words with the challenge of a smile playing around her full lips.

Every legally encoded cell in Brett’s brain flashed alarm, exhorting him to immediately escort this woman out of his room.

But her smile spoke to every red-blooded male cell in his body, overriding even his well-developed sense of circumspection. Brett closed the door and stood silently contemplating his unexpected guest.

Octavia Osborne was stunning. He could think of no other word to describe her. She was over six feet in her high heels, with long, flowing flame-red hair, a glowing, golden complexion, and eyes so deep and startling a blue that he had only seen their like in the heart of the fabulous blue-white diamond he had fought so hard to possess.

The moment he’d seen her at the KRIS radio station that morning, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Brett kept her in his peripheral vision now as he walked over to where he had left his drink on the coffee table.

Yes, she possessed that kind of dazzling sparkle that would always draw his eye, but he’d learned the hard way to pass up the breathtaking beauties of the flesh and make do with the plainer and saner—if less exciting—specimens of the female sex.

He would not offer her a drink. He would do nothing to prolong her stay. He would hear what she had to say and then show her the door.

She whirled gracefully out of her cape, the color of a flambéed peach, slipped off her matching gloves, then proceeded to commandeer the most comfortable chair in the room.

He picked up his glass of Scotch from the coffee table, took a swig and sat across the room opposite her on the bench seat beneath the window.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

“I’m Mab Osborne’s granddaughter.”

Yes, Brett had already noted they shared the same last name. And despite the more than forty years separating the two women, the same flame of Octavia’s hair was buried beneath the silver of Mab’s. Both women also possessed an elegant air in poise and carriage that marked the familial tie.

“Why did you come here, Ms. Osborne?”

“To stop you from making trouble for Mab, of course.”

Brett wondered how. Would Octavia be like the many who had treated him to a bout of unsavory pleading and tears? Or like the few who had offered their bodies? He immediately pushed the tempting thoughts of the latter aside and decided to try to stave off whatever stratagem she had in mind.

“Ms. Osborne, your concern for your grandmother is understandable. But coming here tonight to try to sway me to drop my complaint to the FCC is not the proper way to go about helping her.”

“I don’t care about your complaint to the FCC. But I do care that you’re having the newspaper carry the story about this ridiculous FCC morals charge in order to bring ridicule to my grandmother.”

Brett was a little surprised at Octavia’s words. He hadn’t expected her to figure out that it was the sensational attention of a news story he was after.

“Ms. Osborne, I’m certain the newspaper will be happy to print your grandmother’s side of the story. All she has to do is call them.”

“Yes, you would like that, wouldn’t you. The more space they give to this ridiculous morals charge the better, right?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mr. Merlin, let’s deal with each other honestly, please. You’re Dole Scroogen’s attorney. You’ve deliberately set up this trumped-up morals charge to detract from my grandmother’s campaign against Scroogen’s building plans—plans that will seriously endanger the life-style of many elderly citizens.”

So, Octavia Osborne knew he was a lawyer and that the FCC charge was merely a smokescreen to help Scroogen get on with his development plans.

Was it Scroogen’s presence that morning in the radio station that had given the game away? Must have been. He’d told Dole to stay home and let him handle it. Fool should have listened to him. Now he had to deal with the damage control.

Brett swallowed some Scotch and continued to maintain his civilized tone of polite distance, so important in these matters.

“Ms. Osborne, I realize that change is always difficult to accept for those embedded in comfortable grooves.”

“A community made up of people who know and care for one another is more than just a comfortable groove.”

“Nevertheless, the law is on Mr. Scroogen’s side, and the law must prevail if progress is to be made.”

“Progress? You call ripping apart the seniors’ simple and gentle way of life and replacing it with overpopulation and pollution progress? Scroogen’s great-aunt wanted the seniors to have use of her land. That’s why she gave them a ninety-nine-year lease. What Scroogen is doing circumvents his great aunt’s wishes. He is wrong. I urge you to rethink where your loyalties lie.”

“Ms. Osborne, according to the law, it is your grandmother who is wrong. Mr. Scroogen received his great-aunt’s property without entanglements on her death. He has every right to do with his property as he pleases. And, as for my loyalties, they lie with my client. It is my sworn duty to fight for Dole Scroogen.”

She surprised him completely then by laughing, full and luscious, a sound that filled the room with music and inexplicably tightened the muscles at the back of his neck and down his spine.

“Your sworn duty,” she repeated, amusement still in her tone after she had gotten her laughter under control. “You say that as though you had no choice. Why are you, of all people, representing a man like Dole Scroogen?”

“What do you mean ‘of all people’?”

“I’ve approached you with candor and honesty, Mr. Merlin. I am disappointed that you do not choose to return them.”

“And I am disappointed that you refuse to accept that Mr. Scroogen is within his legal rights to proceed with the building of the condominium complex and evicting the Silver Power League for nonpayment of what is clearly reasonable rent for the facilities they are inhabiting.”

She was up and out of her chair in a flash. She crossed the distance between them with a deliberate, determined stride. She stopped directly in front of him. She stood hands on hips, feet planted. Combative blue eyes bore into him. Yet her voice remained warmly mellow and richly resonant.

“Scroogen is trying to evict the seniors from the land that is rightfully theirs to use and from buildings that they built with their own money and moxie. He is determined to turn their sweet and sane neighborhood into yet another crowded, crime-filled Seattle suburb. And you dare talk to me about his legal rights? Where is your heart?”

“The law has no room for a heart, Ms. Osborne. If human beings decided their fate based on their emotions instead of their minds, our civilization would descend into chaos.”

“And if human beings decided their fate based only on their minds, they might as well be manikins. Mr. Merlin, the law came into being for the sole purpose of sustaining justice between human beings. But like everything else, unless the law is administered by people with hearts—as well as heads—even its great and lofty goal can be corrupted. What you are trying to do for Scroogen will not achieve justice. The man is both beneath contempt and certainly beneath your legal expertise.”