Read Online Dead Deceiver by Victoria Houston - Free Book Online
Authors: Victoria Houston
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kidded “an ugly rich man is not ugly.” Does the same hold true for a homely rich woman?
Osborne struggled to reconcile his memories of Patience with the woman in front of him. As a teenager, she was so shy that on the few occasions her late mother brought her to his dental office, he had difficulty getting more than a mumble out of the kid. Perhaps because of the shyness, it came as no surprise that she entered the convent immediately after graduating from high school.
It was maybe ten years after that that Osborne learned from her father that Patience had left the convent, gone on to graduate school in business administration and was, at that time, working in the family’s freight and warehousing business located in suburban Chicago. Osborne wondered if the officious tone and over-hearty mannerisms that she was exhibiting today might not be a mask for incredible shyness. Assuming she may have had to report to her father, that wouldn’t surprise him. He could just hear the old man badgering his daughter to “take command, girl! Speak up!”
“And you are …?” asked Lew, leaning across her desk to shake hands with the man who was even taller than his wife. Later she would replay what occurred in the next few minutes: Was it his slim build or the athletic ease with which he crossed the room? The high cheekbones or the firm thrust to his chin? Maybe it was the soft grey eyes that met and held hers? Or the casual insouciance of the ponytail slung over one shoulder. ‘Cool’ is the word the registered as he approached.
Whatever the source of the visual chemistry, Lew felt herself drawn in to his gaze. She wasn’t sure but he seemed to hold her hand just a touch too long. An unwelcome flush spread across her cheeks.
From the opposite side of the desk, Osborne watched the man as he reached to shake Lew’s hand. Winter pale skin, watery, red-rimmed eyes and a stubble of beard emphasized gaunt features. A ponytail of lank grey hair hung over one shoulder and he walked with a slump as if trying to minimize his height. Osborne wondered if he was well. Either that or the guy didn’t get outdoors much.
In contrast to his wife’s executive appearance, the husband wore faded jeans that hung off his hip bones and a navy blue sweatshirt so old it was frayed at the cuffs and had long since lost its elasticity around the waist. Conspicuous down the front of the sweatshirt and the jeans were dark stains as if from grease. Random streaks and dabs of bright yellow, Irish green and orange intermingled with the grease spots. Over one arm, he carried a beige shearling coat that looked brand-new and expensive.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Patience, interrupting before the man could answer Lew, “this is my husband, Charles.” After a pause during which neither Lew nor Osborne said a word because they were so busy staring at the guy, she added, “Charles is an artist—he paints.”
Ah, thought Osborne, recalling that he may have heard something along that line several months ago. Was it one of his McDonald’s buddies who had mentioned that Patience Schumacher had “ finally found a husband”? He’d have to check it out.
“Chief Lewellyn Ferris, Mr …?” said Lew, introducing herself.
“Mason, Charles Mason,” said the man, answering her implied question.
“I see. Please, both of you sit. Well, I have your complaint here,” said Lew, hoping against hope that she was no longer blushing. She made sure to look down as she opened the folder on her desk and clearing her throat, said, “I’ve asked Ray Pradt to join us this morning. He should be here any moment and I thought a full explanation of why he was on your property might help resolve—”
“That’s not why we’re here,” said Patience, hitching her chair forward and leaning towards Lew. “I’m being stalked. Someone is entering our home when we’re not there and I have reason to believe the same someone has been in my office at the college. I’m
Osborne struggled to reconcile his memories of Patience with the woman in front of him. As a teenager, she was so shy that on the few occasions her late mother brought her to his dental office, he had difficulty getting more than a mumble out of the kid. Perhaps because of the shyness, it came as no surprise that she entered the convent immediately after graduating from high school.
It was maybe ten years after that that Osborne learned from her father that Patience had left the convent, gone on to graduate school in business administration and was, at that time, working in the family’s freight and warehousing business located in suburban Chicago. Osborne wondered if the officious tone and over-hearty mannerisms that she was exhibiting today might not be a mask for incredible shyness. Assuming she may have had to report to her father, that wouldn’t surprise him. He could just hear the old man badgering his daughter to “take command, girl! Speak up!”
“And you are …?” asked Lew, leaning across her desk to shake hands with the man who was even taller than his wife. Later she would replay what occurred in the next few minutes: Was it his slim build or the athletic ease with which he crossed the room? The high cheekbones or the firm thrust to his chin? Maybe it was the soft grey eyes that met and held hers? Or the casual insouciance of the ponytail slung over one shoulder. ‘Cool’ is the word the registered as he approached.
Whatever the source of the visual chemistry, Lew felt herself drawn in to his gaze. She wasn’t sure but he seemed to hold her hand just a touch too long. An unwelcome flush spread across her cheeks.
From the opposite side of the desk, Osborne watched the man as he reached to shake Lew’s hand. Winter pale skin, watery, red-rimmed eyes and a stubble of beard emphasized gaunt features. A ponytail of lank grey hair hung over one shoulder and he walked with a slump as if trying to minimize his height. Osborne wondered if he was well. Either that or the guy didn’t get outdoors much.
In contrast to his wife’s executive appearance, the husband wore faded jeans that hung off his hip bones and a navy blue sweatshirt so old it was frayed at the cuffs and had long since lost its elasticity around the waist. Conspicuous down the front of the sweatshirt and the jeans were dark stains as if from grease. Random streaks and dabs of bright yellow, Irish green and orange intermingled with the grease spots. Over one arm, he carried a beige shearling coat that looked brand-new and expensive.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Patience, interrupting before the man could answer Lew, “this is my husband, Charles.” After a pause during which neither Lew nor Osborne said a word because they were so busy staring at the guy, she added, “Charles is an artist—he paints.”
Ah, thought Osborne, recalling that he may have heard something along that line several months ago. Was it one of his McDonald’s buddies who had mentioned that Patience Schumacher had “ finally found a husband”? He’d have to check it out.
“Chief Lewellyn Ferris, Mr …?” said Lew, introducing herself.
“Mason, Charles Mason,” said the man, answering her implied question.
“I see. Please, both of you sit. Well, I have your complaint here,” said Lew, hoping against hope that she was no longer blushing. She made sure to look down as she opened the folder on her desk and clearing her throat, said, “I’ve asked Ray Pradt to join us this morning. He should be here any moment and I thought a full explanation of why he was on your property might help resolve—”
“That’s not why we’re here,” said Patience, hitching her chair forward and leaning towards Lew. “I’m being stalked. Someone is entering our home when we’re not there and I have reason to believe the same someone has been in my office at the college. I’m
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