Read Online Bitch Slap by Michael Craft - Free Book Online Page B

Composing herself, Gillian asked archly, “Yes? May I help you?”
    â€œSorry,” I said, “the doors sort of got away from me. I don’t mean to intrude, but the conversation seemed to be getting awfully heated in here; we could hear you from the hall. Besides, Gillian”—I tapped my watch—“you have a one o’clock appointment with Glee Savage.”
    â€œWho?” she asked, as if I were speaking nonsense syllables.
    â€œThe Register’s features editor. She’s here for the background interview on the new house.”
    â€œOh, that.” Gillian flicked her wrist. “That’ll have to wait. Something has come up. Your meddlesome ‘forensic accountant’ has supposedly unearthed a few deadly inconsistencies in the books at Ashton Mills. I don’t know whether to be insulted—or amused. Why, the accusation is downright laughable.” Proving her assertion, she gave a loud, false laugh, then told me, “I suggest your accountant learn to check his math. Perhaps he should stop counting on his fingers.”
    Steely-faced, Tyler said, “See, Mark? I told you there was no reasoning with this woman. It’s her way or the highway.”
    â€œDamn straight, junior.” She flashed him a look that could crack granite.
    â€œLet me remind you, Mrs. Reece, the merger with Quatro Press is contingent upon my approval of the numbers. You may not like me, but your goals would be better served by a measure of attitude adjustment.”
    She looked him squarely in the eye, then asked him sweetly, “Attitude adjustment? Why, Mr. Pennell, I do believe you can kiss my ass.”
    Tyler was momentarily stunned by her pronouncement; so was I. He sputtered, “You’re … you’re even worse than they say. You’re impossible. And if you’re incapable of conducting business in a businesslike manner, then you’d better understand that business will be conducted without you.” He crossed the room and picked up his briefcase from a side table near the doors. “Perry Schield will be highly interested in learning what transpired here this afternoon. He’s getting cold feet, Mrs. Reece, and frankly, I don’t blame him.” With that, Tyler turned on his heel, huffed out of the room, crossed the foyer, and walked through the front door, slamming it shut behind him.

    Gillian instantly wound herself into a rant, pacing the living room’s stone floor, flailing her arms, sputtering profanities about “that rube from Green Bay.” Workers peered in from the hall, so I moved to the double doors and gently closed them. Crossing my arms, I watched with strained patience as Gillian vented her rage. There was no point in trying to counter her irrational outburst; the best way to quiet her down was to let her wear herself out.
    This was a side of Gillian Reece that I had heard rumors about but had never witnessed. While her behavior was appalling, it was also perversely entertaining, so I watched with a measure of satisfaction, feeling smugly superior, like an adult confronted by a child’s tantrum. Should I declare a time-out and haul her off to the car?
    While musing over the possibilities (e.g., spanking Gillian Reece), my attention shifted from the woman to her living room. Ignoring her hysterics, I took in the magnificent space Neil had created for her—the sumptuous but refined seating area, the massive fireplace, and of course the surrounding bookcases, with their balcony, ladders, and long, elegant windows. Shafts of afternoon daylight angled in from the openings and sliced across the floor.
    â€œ … so he simply has to go, Mark. He must.”
    â€œHmm?” I glanced from the balcony to the fireplace, where Gillian stood, reasonably composed, addressing me from the far side of the room. I asked, “Who has to go?”
    â€œTyler Pennell.” She flipped her hands. “Who