Read Online Veiled Threats by DEBORAH DONNELLY - Free Book Online
Authors: DEBORAH DONNELLY
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parking to the condition of the path connecting the Glacier View with themeadow where the ceremony would take place. Then I gratefully turned her over to Eddie for the financial details.
But my gratitude was short-lived. Eddie had apparently been stewing about the arrangements for the Parry wedding, and after Mrs. Schiraldi left he boiled over.
“I thought I handled the payments around here,” he said. “Now you're bouncing checks with our vendors?”
I looked over from my desk, shading my eyes against the momentary sun. The weather that day was quicksilver, slipping from windy brightness to sullen showers within each hour, and lending a spotlit, melodramatic air to our view of the lake.
“Of course you handle the payments, in most cases,” I said. “But your signature won't work on the Parry account.”
“It would if you had insisted on it in the first place.”
“Well, I forgot to in the first place. I told you that. What's the big deal?”
“It's no big deal for you,” he grumbled, not meeting my eye, “but it fouls up my record-keeping if I can't pay the bills straight out. Waste of my time.”
I might have held my tongue if he hadn't lit his cigar. The weather was already playing havoc with my sinuses, and just one whiff of that tobacco was too much.
“Well, I pay you for your time,” I said, with chill politeness, “and your record-keeping is too complicated anyway. I never know where anything is.”
That was a low blow. I never knew because I never looked, and in fact I was shamefully ignorant about my own business's books.
“You never brought it up before,” he said, puffing furiously.
“I never needed to,” I said, “and you never smoked cigars in here before!”
“Well, I'll take it outside, then. Gonna drop off that earring at Diane's mother's house and then go home. I wish you'd let Sercombe House and the rest run their own goddamn lost-and-founds.”
“It's part of the service,” I insisted. “Listen, did anyone call about that business card case—?”
But he was already out the door. I could hardly object, since he was only supposed to work mornings, but I fumed just the same as I yanked open a desk drawer. The card case was still there, a heavy little thing, maybe even gold, with its soggy wad of paper inside. I'd already flushed the contents of the sandwich bag before Eddie saw it, to avoid yet another lecture on the younger generation. No one was going to claim the dope, and apparently no one was going to claim the case. Either the owner hadn't missed it yet, or … or the owner was the man in the rain. I slipped the case in my pocket and went downstairs.
B Y THE TIME L ILY SHOWED UP FOR OUR F RIDAY NIGHT DINNER date, I'd gotten the mystery cards peeled apart with tweezers, dried them out with my hair dryer, and laid them out on my kitchen table next to the rusty little toy stove. Only three business cards had survived the soaking: one for a gym called Powerhouse, another for a pool hall called The 418 Club, and a third for something called Flair Plus, which listed a street address but no indication of what kind of establishment it might be. My front door banged.
“Hey, girl.”
“Hey, Lily. What can you tell about a person from the business cards they collect?”
“Depends on what they are. Is this a test from one of those trashy bride's magazines you read? Find Mr. Right by Stealing His Wallet?” She laughed, shaking me out of my Nancy Drewish study of the evidence. If it was evidence.
Lily James is a formidably handsome black woman, almost as tall as me, with a wide, sculpted face, a voluptuous figure that I envy, and a stiletto sense of humor. Not exactly my image of a librarian. I'd met her at the business desk at Seattle Public, back in the days when I spent every lunch hour devouring pamphlets on how to start a small business. We'd begun by having coffee together, and discovered arange of common interests, like fine literature, liberal politics, and men.
But my gratitude was short-lived. Eddie had apparently been stewing about the arrangements for the Parry wedding, and after Mrs. Schiraldi left he boiled over.
“I thought I handled the payments around here,” he said. “Now you're bouncing checks with our vendors?”
I looked over from my desk, shading my eyes against the momentary sun. The weather that day was quicksilver, slipping from windy brightness to sullen showers within each hour, and lending a spotlit, melodramatic air to our view of the lake.
“Of course you handle the payments, in most cases,” I said. “But your signature won't work on the Parry account.”
“It would if you had insisted on it in the first place.”
“Well, I forgot to in the first place. I told you that. What's the big deal?”
“It's no big deal for you,” he grumbled, not meeting my eye, “but it fouls up my record-keeping if I can't pay the bills straight out. Waste of my time.”
I might have held my tongue if he hadn't lit his cigar. The weather was already playing havoc with my sinuses, and just one whiff of that tobacco was too much.
“Well, I pay you for your time,” I said, with chill politeness, “and your record-keeping is too complicated anyway. I never know where anything is.”
That was a low blow. I never knew because I never looked, and in fact I was shamefully ignorant about my own business's books.
“You never brought it up before,” he said, puffing furiously.
“I never needed to,” I said, “and you never smoked cigars in here before!”
“Well, I'll take it outside, then. Gonna drop off that earring at Diane's mother's house and then go home. I wish you'd let Sercombe House and the rest run their own goddamn lost-and-founds.”
“It's part of the service,” I insisted. “Listen, did anyone call about that business card case—?”
But he was already out the door. I could hardly object, since he was only supposed to work mornings, but I fumed just the same as I yanked open a desk drawer. The card case was still there, a heavy little thing, maybe even gold, with its soggy wad of paper inside. I'd already flushed the contents of the sandwich bag before Eddie saw it, to avoid yet another lecture on the younger generation. No one was going to claim the dope, and apparently no one was going to claim the case. Either the owner hadn't missed it yet, or … or the owner was the man in the rain. I slipped the case in my pocket and went downstairs.
B Y THE TIME L ILY SHOWED UP FOR OUR F RIDAY NIGHT DINNER date, I'd gotten the mystery cards peeled apart with tweezers, dried them out with my hair dryer, and laid them out on my kitchen table next to the rusty little toy stove. Only three business cards had survived the soaking: one for a gym called Powerhouse, another for a pool hall called The 418 Club, and a third for something called Flair Plus, which listed a street address but no indication of what kind of establishment it might be. My front door banged.
“Hey, girl.”
“Hey, Lily. What can you tell about a person from the business cards they collect?”
“Depends on what they are. Is this a test from one of those trashy bride's magazines you read? Find Mr. Right by Stealing His Wallet?” She laughed, shaking me out of my Nancy Drewish study of the evidence. If it was evidence.
Lily James is a formidably handsome black woman, almost as tall as me, with a wide, sculpted face, a voluptuous figure that I envy, and a stiletto sense of humor. Not exactly my image of a librarian. I'd met her at the business desk at Seattle Public, back in the days when I spent every lunch hour devouring pamphlets on how to start a small business. We'd begun by having coffee together, and discovered arange of common interests, like fine literature, liberal politics, and men.
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