talking? She acted as if the only problem she had in the world was finding the sister everyone else said she didn’t have. It was time to go find some answers.
Darla was printing a stack of paperwork when I emerged from my cubicle with my briefcase in hand. She looked up and smiled. “You’ve been quiet this morning.”
I explained about our new client who had walked in on Friday afternoon.
Darla seemed unperturbed as she put various copies into folders. “Who in the world would come in here to do business that late?”
“People who think we’re open until six o’clock like the sign on the door says,” I said, waiting for her to acknowledge her absence.
She shrugged. “Usually it’s dead here on Friday afternoons.” She picked up the stacks of paper and began putting them in folders.
I started to admonish her but decided it would fall on deaf ears. Hunter wouldn’t back me, and it wasn’t worth the trouble it would cause.
“I’m working on the Howerton case this afternoon and won’t be back until late.”
Darla gave me a wave, but still I hesitated. I asked, “I know Hunter has court this afternoon. You’re not nervous to be here alone, are you? After the body in the woods?”
Hunter and I had updated Darla on the events of Friday night as soon as she came in this morning.
The pretty blonde paused. “Do you think I have reason to worry? I’m just not sure someone interested in him would be interested in me,” Darla said with her usual supreme confidence.
I nodded, not sure why it hadn’t crossed my mind that Darla could pretty much handle anything. “All right.” I turned toward the door.
“Don’t worry about me,” Darla called. “You know I’ll be leaving well before dark.”
I resisted the urge to respond to that tiny dig and went to my car. I hit Highway 23 and went to the New Jersey Transit stop to grab a bus into the city. Occasionally I enjoy driving into Manhattan, but most days I just hop on a bus.
It’s a pleasant ride to cruise through the Meadowlands past Giants Stadium and the IZOD Center and whiz by Secaucus to enter New York City through the Lincoln Tunnel.
Though I love the view of the Manhattan skyline, I also get a little squeamish as we head through the tunnel. I have a real fear of being stranded and having to stay there for hours without seeing the sky. If that ever happens, I’ll be the idiot screaming and climbing the walls. Just peel me off and take me outside; I’ll be fine.
At the Port Authority Terminal, I get caught up in the beat of the city. People are everywhere, and they all have places they need to be with great urgency. I have just enough time to grab a hot pretzel for lunch before taking a cab to the Howerton residence on Park Avenue.
This was one of the family’s many homes, where Lizzie and her mother stayed most often when in the city. Douglas usually set up camp in the family’s suite at the Helmsley Carlton House. The separate living spaces were yet another indication that Baines/Howerton was more corporate than matrimonial.
At the Howerton mansion, a sour-looking woman in a black skirt and heavily starched white blouse answered the door when I rang the bell. “Yes?” she asked, frowning. “May I help you?”
“I’m Zoe Buchanan. I have an appointment with Ms. Howerton.”
From behind the imposing woman Lizzie squealed my name. Yes, she actually squealed. It was hard to believe this woman was several years older than me. “It’s so good to see you. Mary, would you please bring some coffee and snacks to the study?”
“Yes, Miss Lizzie,” the woman said brusquely and left us.
I’m accustomed to wealth, but even I was impressed. The antique desk against the wall in the foyer held a beautiful Baccarat vase filled with fresh flowers. The smell was heavenly. I’m not much on antiques but I was pretty sure I’d seen that desk in a Sotheby’s catalog a few months ago. One of my aspirations is to go to one of those auctions and
Darla was printing a stack of paperwork when I emerged from my cubicle with my briefcase in hand. She looked up and smiled. “You’ve been quiet this morning.”
I explained about our new client who had walked in on Friday afternoon.
Darla seemed unperturbed as she put various copies into folders. “Who in the world would come in here to do business that late?”
“People who think we’re open until six o’clock like the sign on the door says,” I said, waiting for her to acknowledge her absence.
She shrugged. “Usually it’s dead here on Friday afternoons.” She picked up the stacks of paper and began putting them in folders.
I started to admonish her but decided it would fall on deaf ears. Hunter wouldn’t back me, and it wasn’t worth the trouble it would cause.
“I’m working on the Howerton case this afternoon and won’t be back until late.”
Darla gave me a wave, but still I hesitated. I asked, “I know Hunter has court this afternoon. You’re not nervous to be here alone, are you? After the body in the woods?”
Hunter and I had updated Darla on the events of Friday night as soon as she came in this morning.
The pretty blonde paused. “Do you think I have reason to worry? I’m just not sure someone interested in him would be interested in me,” Darla said with her usual supreme confidence.
I nodded, not sure why it hadn’t crossed my mind that Darla could pretty much handle anything. “All right.” I turned toward the door.
“Don’t worry about me,” Darla called. “You know I’ll be leaving well before dark.”
I resisted the urge to respond to that tiny dig and went to my car. I hit Highway 23 and went to the New Jersey Transit stop to grab a bus into the city. Occasionally I enjoy driving into Manhattan, but most days I just hop on a bus.
It’s a pleasant ride to cruise through the Meadowlands past Giants Stadium and the IZOD Center and whiz by Secaucus to enter New York City through the Lincoln Tunnel.
Though I love the view of the Manhattan skyline, I also get a little squeamish as we head through the tunnel. I have a real fear of being stranded and having to stay there for hours without seeing the sky. If that ever happens, I’ll be the idiot screaming and climbing the walls. Just peel me off and take me outside; I’ll be fine.
At the Port Authority Terminal, I get caught up in the beat of the city. People are everywhere, and they all have places they need to be with great urgency. I have just enough time to grab a hot pretzel for lunch before taking a cab to the Howerton residence on Park Avenue.
This was one of the family’s many homes, where Lizzie and her mother stayed most often when in the city. Douglas usually set up camp in the family’s suite at the Helmsley Carlton House. The separate living spaces were yet another indication that Baines/Howerton was more corporate than matrimonial.
At the Howerton mansion, a sour-looking woman in a black skirt and heavily starched white blouse answered the door when I rang the bell. “Yes?” she asked, frowning. “May I help you?”
“I’m Zoe Buchanan. I have an appointment with Ms. Howerton.”
From behind the imposing woman Lizzie squealed my name. Yes, she actually squealed. It was hard to believe this woman was several years older than me. “It’s so good to see you. Mary, would you please bring some coffee and snacks to the study?”
“Yes, Miss Lizzie,” the woman said brusquely and left us.
I’m accustomed to wealth, but even I was impressed. The antique desk against the wall in the foyer held a beautiful Baccarat vase filled with fresh flowers. The smell was heavenly. I’m not much on antiques but I was pretty sure I’d seen that desk in a Sotheby’s catalog a few months ago. One of my aspirations is to go to one of those auctions and
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