Read Online First You Fall: A Kevin Connor Mystery by Scott Sherman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Scott Sherman
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gone. Then I went upstairs to face the fresh horrors that awaited me.
CHAPTER 5
The Storm Settles In
I OPENED MY apartment door and found my mother unpacking her bags. “I thought I asked you not to do that.”
“Don’t be sil y,” my mother said, shaking out a garment bag. “Do you know how hard it is to get wrinkles out of silk?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But Mom, what are you doing here?”
“I told you. I found out a few days ago that your dad was … involved with that bitch Dottie Kubacki.
There was no way I could stay in the house after that.
I would have kicked him out, but where would he have gone? Dottie’s? I’d cut his legs off, first. I tried to cal and tel you that I was coming, but you never answered my messages.”
“What about Kara?” Kara was my married sister who lived in a big house in New Rochel e. A house with at least two guest bedrooms.
“You know she wouldn’t want me there. Besides, those kids would drive me crazy before too long.”
“‘Too long?’ How long do you plan on staying?” My mother started opening closets. Wel , closet.
There was only one. “Where’s your ironing board?”
“I don’t have one. And stop going through my things.” I was glad I hid my porn the other night when Tony was coming over, but it wasn’t that wel hidden.
“How can you not have an ironing board?”
“Kara has an ironing board.”
“And five-year-old triplets who should have their vocal cords cut,” my mother answered.
“I only have one bed,” I whined.
“I don’t mind if you sleep on the couch.” There was no use arguing with my mother. She’s like a force of nature when she gets like this: determined, inevitable, implacable. I’ve found that people are either appal ed or amused by her. I was usual y both.
So I helped her unpack. Tomorrow, I would cal my father and have him get her back. It was inconceivable to me that he was actual y having an affair with anyone, let alone with a woman who needed to have her dresses made at Omar the Tentmaker’s. I was more likely to sleep with Dottie Kubacki than my father. I was sure it was al a big misunderstanding.
After an hour spent turning on the couch, I realized I’d never get to sleep. The heavy snoring from my bedroom assured me that my mother wasn’t having the same problem. But then again, there happens to be a very comfortable bed in there.
Maybe I’d get to use it again someday.
I got out of bed and sat at my computer. I decided to see if I could find out a little more about Al en’s sons before I met them at the reading of the wil tomorrow.
First, the younger one. A Google of his name led to a few relevant links. The first was to the financial firm Ingerson Investing. Paul managed two of their largest mutual funds.
His picture was in the annual report. A handsome man, he was posed standing in front of his desk, arms crossed across his chest. His grim, serious-guy expression was meant to convey gravity and strength. But the slimness of his build, his thin lips, the two-hundred-dol ar haircut, and the perfect tailoring of his suit spoke to a certain effeteness. He seemed more likely to study himself in the mirror than to study financial reports.
I fol owed a few links to his funds, and sure enough, they had underperformed the market. I looked at the stocks he had recently bought for the funds, and some of them were real dogs, companies whose malfeasance or misfortunes had made the front pages. Unlike his father, who had a Midas touch with investing, Paul seemed to have the instincts of a born loser.
Another search led me to an article from the New York Times. Paul and his wife were pictured at a cancer fundraiser at the Ritz Carlton. “Investment fund manager Paul Harrington and wife Alana,” the caption read.
Paul looked even spiffier here. Gucci shoes, a suit that fit him like it was custom made, and a white linen shirt buckled to the col ar, no tie. His wife, Alana, was attractive, but severe
CHAPTER 5
The Storm Settles In
I OPENED MY apartment door and found my mother unpacking her bags. “I thought I asked you not to do that.”
“Don’t be sil y,” my mother said, shaking out a garment bag. “Do you know how hard it is to get wrinkles out of silk?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But Mom, what are you doing here?”
“I told you. I found out a few days ago that your dad was … involved with that bitch Dottie Kubacki.
There was no way I could stay in the house after that.
I would have kicked him out, but where would he have gone? Dottie’s? I’d cut his legs off, first. I tried to cal and tel you that I was coming, but you never answered my messages.”
“What about Kara?” Kara was my married sister who lived in a big house in New Rochel e. A house with at least two guest bedrooms.
“You know she wouldn’t want me there. Besides, those kids would drive me crazy before too long.”
“‘Too long?’ How long do you plan on staying?” My mother started opening closets. Wel , closet.
There was only one. “Where’s your ironing board?”
“I don’t have one. And stop going through my things.” I was glad I hid my porn the other night when Tony was coming over, but it wasn’t that wel hidden.
“How can you not have an ironing board?”
“Kara has an ironing board.”
“And five-year-old triplets who should have their vocal cords cut,” my mother answered.
“I only have one bed,” I whined.
“I don’t mind if you sleep on the couch.” There was no use arguing with my mother. She’s like a force of nature when she gets like this: determined, inevitable, implacable. I’ve found that people are either appal ed or amused by her. I was usual y both.
So I helped her unpack. Tomorrow, I would cal my father and have him get her back. It was inconceivable to me that he was actual y having an affair with anyone, let alone with a woman who needed to have her dresses made at Omar the Tentmaker’s. I was more likely to sleep with Dottie Kubacki than my father. I was sure it was al a big misunderstanding.
After an hour spent turning on the couch, I realized I’d never get to sleep. The heavy snoring from my bedroom assured me that my mother wasn’t having the same problem. But then again, there happens to be a very comfortable bed in there.
Maybe I’d get to use it again someday.
I got out of bed and sat at my computer. I decided to see if I could find out a little more about Al en’s sons before I met them at the reading of the wil tomorrow.
First, the younger one. A Google of his name led to a few relevant links. The first was to the financial firm Ingerson Investing. Paul managed two of their largest mutual funds.
His picture was in the annual report. A handsome man, he was posed standing in front of his desk, arms crossed across his chest. His grim, serious-guy expression was meant to convey gravity and strength. But the slimness of his build, his thin lips, the two-hundred-dol ar haircut, and the perfect tailoring of his suit spoke to a certain effeteness. He seemed more likely to study himself in the mirror than to study financial reports.
I fol owed a few links to his funds, and sure enough, they had underperformed the market. I looked at the stocks he had recently bought for the funds, and some of them were real dogs, companies whose malfeasance or misfortunes had made the front pages. Unlike his father, who had a Midas touch with investing, Paul seemed to have the instincts of a born loser.
Another search led me to an article from the New York Times. Paul and his wife were pictured at a cancer fundraiser at the Ritz Carlton. “Investment fund manager Paul Harrington and wife Alana,” the caption read.
Paul looked even spiffier here. Gucci shoes, a suit that fit him like it was custom made, and a white linen shirt buckled to the col ar, no tie. His wife, Alana, was attractive, but severe
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