Read Online Chocolate Quake by NANCY FAIRBANKS - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: NANCY FAIRBANKS
Ads: Link
empty. Another indication that an outsider could have entered, unremarked, and killed Denise.
On the wall behind hung a large directory board giving floor and room numbers for the services offered by the center. I skimmed over such ordinary items as Director and Business Office, which I could see down the hall on the right cordoned off by crime scene tape. Battered Women’s Advocacy, Child-Care Referrals, and Nutrition Central didn’t cause me much speculation, but what had my mother-in-law made of Lesbian and Transsexual Support? Or the Crone Cohort, which brought bizarre pictures of witches to mind?
To my immediate right was a door that announced in elaborate gold letters: Office of the Director and below that, Marina Chavez-Timberlite. I decided to call on her first, but my knock went unanswered. However, a head popped out from the second door on the left, and the woman called, “Kelani’s on maternity leave. She’s probably giving birth as we speak.”
“We’re looking for Ms. Chavez-Timberlite,” I called back.
“Knock on the inside door.” The woman then ducked back into her office.
With Mr. Valetti in tow, muttering about “that bastard Eric Timberlite,” I entered the first door and found a tiny anteroom—presumably the domain of the absent Kelani. The room had been carved out of the corner tower of the building.
“I doubt that Ms. Chavez-Timberlite is related to the man you dislike,” I murmured to Mr. Valetti, “but either way, please exercise discretion.” Then I knocked on the director’s door and was invited in.
A tiny woman in very high heels, an expensive dark-red suit, and a head of shining black hair pulled back into a chignon turned from her many paned, five-sided window alcove and looked at us without pleasure. I judged her to be a good six inches shorter than I, probably five to ten years older. Even in middle age she was a beautiful woman. Or was she the poster patient of some expensive cosmetic surgeon? That light tan skin stretched rather too tightly over good bones.
“Ms. Chavez-Timberlite?”
“Mrs.,” she corrected. “My husband is Eric Timberlite. The city’s foremost developer.” She sounded very pleased with herself and him.
“See,” hissed Mr. Valetti.
“Sh-sh,” I murmured and introduced myself. Possibly Mr. Timberlite was, as Mr. Valetti had suggested, Satan in an Armani suit, guilty of evicting widows and orphans from their apartments and supporting rent laws that would benefit him and destroy small landlords like Mr. Valetti. Still, I couldn’t afford to offend Mrs. Timberlite when my investigation would have to be conducted on the lady’s turf.
“Blue?” said Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite. “Are you related to Vera Blue?”
“She’s my mother-in-law.”
“Well, let me tell you, I wish I’d never let Lila Epersen talk me into inviting that woman to come here as a consultant. She’s been nothing but trouble since she arrived. She talked the Women of Color into harassing my husband. They’re picketing his office building.”
“Good for them,” said Mr. Valetti. “Maybe I’m-a go help.” He turned to me. “We take some pizza. That picketing, it’s-a hungry work.”
Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite turned on Mr. Valetti, whom I hadn’t had the chance to introduce. “My husband is doing nothing wrong. He just wants to beautify the city by tearing down old tenements.”
“Sure. He’s-a throw poor people inna the street.”
“There’s housing in Daly City for such people,” snapped the director.
She didn’t sound to me like a sympathetic do-gooder type. “Be that as it may,” I interrupted, “my mother-in-law—”
“Is a murderer,” the director finished for me, “and I’m not at all surprised. She’s been a thorn in everyone’s side since the day she arrived. A rude and troublesome woman. ”
True, I thought, feeling discouraged. “But she’s not a murderer,” I said stoutly.
“She’s-a mio amore, ” said Mr. Valetti, not a
On the wall behind hung a large directory board giving floor and room numbers for the services offered by the center. I skimmed over such ordinary items as Director and Business Office, which I could see down the hall on the right cordoned off by crime scene tape. Battered Women’s Advocacy, Child-Care Referrals, and Nutrition Central didn’t cause me much speculation, but what had my mother-in-law made of Lesbian and Transsexual Support? Or the Crone Cohort, which brought bizarre pictures of witches to mind?
To my immediate right was a door that announced in elaborate gold letters: Office of the Director and below that, Marina Chavez-Timberlite. I decided to call on her first, but my knock went unanswered. However, a head popped out from the second door on the left, and the woman called, “Kelani’s on maternity leave. She’s probably giving birth as we speak.”
“We’re looking for Ms. Chavez-Timberlite,” I called back.
“Knock on the inside door.” The woman then ducked back into her office.
With Mr. Valetti in tow, muttering about “that bastard Eric Timberlite,” I entered the first door and found a tiny anteroom—presumably the domain of the absent Kelani. The room had been carved out of the corner tower of the building.
“I doubt that Ms. Chavez-Timberlite is related to the man you dislike,” I murmured to Mr. Valetti, “but either way, please exercise discretion.” Then I knocked on the director’s door and was invited in.
A tiny woman in very high heels, an expensive dark-red suit, and a head of shining black hair pulled back into a chignon turned from her many paned, five-sided window alcove and looked at us without pleasure. I judged her to be a good six inches shorter than I, probably five to ten years older. Even in middle age she was a beautiful woman. Or was she the poster patient of some expensive cosmetic surgeon? That light tan skin stretched rather too tightly over good bones.
“Ms. Chavez-Timberlite?”
“Mrs.,” she corrected. “My husband is Eric Timberlite. The city’s foremost developer.” She sounded very pleased with herself and him.
“See,” hissed Mr. Valetti.
“Sh-sh,” I murmured and introduced myself. Possibly Mr. Timberlite was, as Mr. Valetti had suggested, Satan in an Armani suit, guilty of evicting widows and orphans from their apartments and supporting rent laws that would benefit him and destroy small landlords like Mr. Valetti. Still, I couldn’t afford to offend Mrs. Timberlite when my investigation would have to be conducted on the lady’s turf.
“Blue?” said Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite. “Are you related to Vera Blue?”
“She’s my mother-in-law.”
“Well, let me tell you, I wish I’d never let Lila Epersen talk me into inviting that woman to come here as a consultant. She’s been nothing but trouble since she arrived. She talked the Women of Color into harassing my husband. They’re picketing his office building.”
“Good for them,” said Mr. Valetti. “Maybe I’m-a go help.” He turned to me. “We take some pizza. That picketing, it’s-a hungry work.”
Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite turned on Mr. Valetti, whom I hadn’t had the chance to introduce. “My husband is doing nothing wrong. He just wants to beautify the city by tearing down old tenements.”
“Sure. He’s-a throw poor people inna the street.”
“There’s housing in Daly City for such people,” snapped the director.
She didn’t sound to me like a sympathetic do-gooder type. “Be that as it may,” I interrupted, “my mother-in-law—”
“Is a murderer,” the director finished for me, “and I’m not at all surprised. She’s been a thorn in everyone’s side since the day she arrived. A rude and troublesome woman. ”
True, I thought, feeling discouraged. “But she’s not a murderer,” I said stoutly.
“She’s-a mio amore, ” said Mr. Valetti, not a
Similar Books
