Read Online Corpus Christmas by Margaret Maron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Maron
Ads: Link
eyes were lost in thought as she wondered if she’d made a mistake
in encouraging Jacob to sponsor Shambley on the Breul House’s board of trustees. She’d considered it a minor quid pro quo
when Shambley approached her about the vacancy in October. She didn’t know how Shambley had heard about her tutorial sessions
with young Rick Evans or how he knew she’d prefer Jacob not to learn of them, but smoothing his way onto the board seemed
a small price to pay for his silence.
Not that he’d been crass enough to threaten her. Open confrontation was not Shambley’s way. The man was oblique indirection:
a lifted eyebrow, a knowing twitch of his lips, a murmured phrase of ironic Italian. His victim’s guilty conscience would
do the rest.
Only… had she drastically mistaken which situation Shambley meant her to feel guilty about?
In the office across the hall, Jacob Munson unwrapped a peppermint drop from the bowl on his desk. He had not intended to
eavesdrop on the conversation between Benjamin and Hester and had almost announced his presence on their line when something
in Benjamin’s voice kept him silent. A lover’s quarrel, he’d thought at first.
When he’d realized last year that Hester and Benjamin were occasional lovers, he’d hoped that it might lead to marriage. Thirty-four,
Hester was, and time was running out if she wanted children.
That would have made an appropriate solution to the gallery’s uncertain future—Horace’s daughter and the best friend of Jacob’s
only son. To his disappointment though, their relationship had never gotten out of bed. When dressed, they didn’t even seem
to like each other most of the time. So what was all this about plaster flakes?
He sighed and absently tucked the cellophane candy wrapper into his pocket. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe blood was best after
all. Surely it was not too late to train young Richard to carry on the Munson heritage at Kohn and Munson?
* * *
By closing time, Rick Evans had shot the last roll of film that he’d brought with him to the Breul House. He climbed down
from Pascal’s tall aluminum stepladder and unplugged the floodlights he’d used to light the plaster moldings on the ceiling
of the third floor hallway.
“I guess we’ll call it a day,” he told Pascal Grant, and began packing up his cases.
Pascal bent to help, his smooth face so near Rick could have touched it with his own. His beautiful eyes met Rick’s trustingly.
“Will you need my ladder anymore, Rick?”
“Not for now.”
They collapsed the light stands and carried everything through the frosted glass doors, down to the end of the hall and the
mannequin maid, where they loaded it all on the dumbwaiter—easier than carting everything up and down by hand. Together they
carried the ladder down the back service steps and unloaded the dumbwaiter down in the basement next to Pascal’s room.
“Want to go get a pizza?” Pascal asked hopefully when they had stowed Rick’s equipment in an empty cabinet. “We can eat it
in my room and listen to some more jazz.”
Rick hesitated; then, with a fatalistic
que sera sera
shrug of his shoulders, he nodded.
“Dr. Shambley?”
The patrician voice floated through the marble hall, startling him as he descended the main staircase, now dimly lit. For
a moment, he almost thought he’d been addressed by the elegant female mannequin on the landing. Then he realized it was that
Beardsley woman speaking to him from the doorway of the darkened gallery beyond the massive fireplace.
“
Cretina!
” Roger Shambley mumbled under his breath. He thought everyone had left for the day and that he was alone except for the simple-minded
janitor somewhere in the bowels of the house.
Mrs. Beardsley turned off the lights in the cloakroom, leaving only the security lights in the hall, then buttoned her red
wool coat and pulled on her gloves. “You won’t forget to let Pascal know when you’re
in encouraging Jacob to sponsor Shambley on the Breul House’s board of trustees. She’d considered it a minor quid pro quo
when Shambley approached her about the vacancy in October. She didn’t know how Shambley had heard about her tutorial sessions
with young Rick Evans or how he knew she’d prefer Jacob not to learn of them, but smoothing his way onto the board seemed
a small price to pay for his silence.
Not that he’d been crass enough to threaten her. Open confrontation was not Shambley’s way. The man was oblique indirection:
a lifted eyebrow, a knowing twitch of his lips, a murmured phrase of ironic Italian. His victim’s guilty conscience would
do the rest.
Only… had she drastically mistaken which situation Shambley meant her to feel guilty about?
In the office across the hall, Jacob Munson unwrapped a peppermint drop from the bowl on his desk. He had not intended to
eavesdrop on the conversation between Benjamin and Hester and had almost announced his presence on their line when something
in Benjamin’s voice kept him silent. A lover’s quarrel, he’d thought at first.
When he’d realized last year that Hester and Benjamin were occasional lovers, he’d hoped that it might lead to marriage. Thirty-four,
Hester was, and time was running out if she wanted children.
That would have made an appropriate solution to the gallery’s uncertain future—Horace’s daughter and the best friend of Jacob’s
only son. To his disappointment though, their relationship had never gotten out of bed. When dressed, they didn’t even seem
to like each other most of the time. So what was all this about plaster flakes?
He sighed and absently tucked the cellophane candy wrapper into his pocket. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe blood was best after
all. Surely it was not too late to train young Richard to carry on the Munson heritage at Kohn and Munson?
* * *
By closing time, Rick Evans had shot the last roll of film that he’d brought with him to the Breul House. He climbed down
from Pascal’s tall aluminum stepladder and unplugged the floodlights he’d used to light the plaster moldings on the ceiling
of the third floor hallway.
“I guess we’ll call it a day,” he told Pascal Grant, and began packing up his cases.
Pascal bent to help, his smooth face so near Rick could have touched it with his own. His beautiful eyes met Rick’s trustingly.
“Will you need my ladder anymore, Rick?”
“Not for now.”
They collapsed the light stands and carried everything through the frosted glass doors, down to the end of the hall and the
mannequin maid, where they loaded it all on the dumbwaiter—easier than carting everything up and down by hand. Together they
carried the ladder down the back service steps and unloaded the dumbwaiter down in the basement next to Pascal’s room.
“Want to go get a pizza?” Pascal asked hopefully when they had stowed Rick’s equipment in an empty cabinet. “We can eat it
in my room and listen to some more jazz.”
Rick hesitated; then, with a fatalistic
que sera sera
shrug of his shoulders, he nodded.
“Dr. Shambley?”
The patrician voice floated through the marble hall, startling him as he descended the main staircase, now dimly lit. For
a moment, he almost thought he’d been addressed by the elegant female mannequin on the landing. Then he realized it was that
Beardsley woman speaking to him from the doorway of the darkened gallery beyond the massive fireplace.
“
Cretina!
” Roger Shambley mumbled under his breath. He thought everyone had left for the day and that he was alone except for the simple-minded
janitor somewhere in the bowels of the house.
Mrs. Beardsley turned off the lights in the cloakroom, leaving only the security lights in the hall, then buttoned her red
wool coat and pulled on her gloves. “You won’t forget to let Pascal know when you’re
Similar Books
