to God, it was like trying to do a makeover on a Beastie Boy. After Bertram had left the car, I put my hand on Owen’s arm. “Sir.”
“What?” He looked petulant.
“Rein it in a little,” I warned. “And don’t forget, Lady Melody writes romance novels—even though she’s eighty-seven, she still considers herself a young and desirable woman.”
“I know.” He winked. “How do you think I convinced her to let us bid on this project in the first place?”
“Give it a rest, sir. Sex is not the answer to every question.”
“That’s what you think.”
Lady Melody herself appeared through the doors. From where I sat, she looked exactly like her pictures: white hair held back with a black ribbon, perfect makeup, a sweet, kind old-lady smile on her lips. Owen took her hand and kissed it and guided her through the front door into the shadows of the manor. I watched her put her fingers delicately on the scratches on his cheek, a look of concern on her face. I could almost hear her purring. Talk about an Iron Maiden.
T E N
I called the office to see what was going on.
“Tina has called a press conference for three o’clock,” our lawyer, David de Menuil, said.
“I’ll tell Owen when I see him, but I don’t think we’ll be back by then.”
“Don’t worry about it. If she says anything worth responding to, I’ll handle it.”
“Poor girl. I think she really does love him—she’s so dependent on him.”
“I think she’s got Owen confused with her father. She needs to grow up. I’ll let you know if anything develops.”
I placed a few more calls, covered all the bases, then fiddled around with Owen’s calendars for a few minutes. They were complicated. Every company had a different color ink: Panther Automobiles was burgundy, which came out of the printer looking more like dried blood. Ballantine’s was green, signaling hope, I hoped. The schedule was always so jammed with meetings it looked as though a child had scribbled all over the page with seven different colors of crayon.
Then, with a few quiet moments facing me, I decided to see what was what.
“Call me if you need me,” I told Michael, who was leaning against the car smoking and listening to music through his headset. “And do me a favor, pick up your cigarette butts. This is Carstairs—not Asbury—Park.”
The entrance of Carstairs Manor was laid out predictably, and smelled predictably old and damp. A small, severe foyer, almost like a church lobby, was followed by a slightly larger, equally severe room where a worn limestone staircase curved upward into the turret off to the left. Beyond lay a cavernous reception hall, which had an ancient and massive, smoke-marked, fireplace. The floor was stone blocks, worn smooth by centuries of use. This was the original great hall of the lodge, and it was easy to envision drunken lords with grease-stained leather jerkins, bad teeth (if they were lucky enough to have any teeth left at all), and dirty, food-packed beards, home from a day of stag or wild boar hunting, slouching around the fire and gnawing on bones while the womenfolk in their big aprons, wooden shoes, caps tied tightly beneath their sagging chins, silently refilled their tankards and tried not to arouse the dozing, ill-tempered dogs.
In spite of Lady Melody’s feminine touches, such as three golden harps on the hearth, chintz-covered furniture, and the world’s largest private collection of Rubens paintings, the room was too big, too cold, and too ill suited to life in the twenty-first century. Its only real function was as a conduit to the dining room, a cheerful eighteenth-century addition with mullioned windows and gleaming heaps of silver, and the library opposite, where the meeting was taking place behind closed doors. There was no noise, except for a phone ringing far away that was quickly answered.
I checked my watch and slipped into the shadows of the cavelike passageway beneath the stairs,
“What?” He looked petulant.
“Rein it in a little,” I warned. “And don’t forget, Lady Melody writes romance novels—even though she’s eighty-seven, she still considers herself a young and desirable woman.”
“I know.” He winked. “How do you think I convinced her to let us bid on this project in the first place?”
“Give it a rest, sir. Sex is not the answer to every question.”
“That’s what you think.”
Lady Melody herself appeared through the doors. From where I sat, she looked exactly like her pictures: white hair held back with a black ribbon, perfect makeup, a sweet, kind old-lady smile on her lips. Owen took her hand and kissed it and guided her through the front door into the shadows of the manor. I watched her put her fingers delicately on the scratches on his cheek, a look of concern on her face. I could almost hear her purring. Talk about an Iron Maiden.
T E N
I called the office to see what was going on.
“Tina has called a press conference for three o’clock,” our lawyer, David de Menuil, said.
“I’ll tell Owen when I see him, but I don’t think we’ll be back by then.”
“Don’t worry about it. If she says anything worth responding to, I’ll handle it.”
“Poor girl. I think she really does love him—she’s so dependent on him.”
“I think she’s got Owen confused with her father. She needs to grow up. I’ll let you know if anything develops.”
I placed a few more calls, covered all the bases, then fiddled around with Owen’s calendars for a few minutes. They were complicated. Every company had a different color ink: Panther Automobiles was burgundy, which came out of the printer looking more like dried blood. Ballantine’s was green, signaling hope, I hoped. The schedule was always so jammed with meetings it looked as though a child had scribbled all over the page with seven different colors of crayon.
Then, with a few quiet moments facing me, I decided to see what was what.
“Call me if you need me,” I told Michael, who was leaning against the car smoking and listening to music through his headset. “And do me a favor, pick up your cigarette butts. This is Carstairs—not Asbury—Park.”
The entrance of Carstairs Manor was laid out predictably, and smelled predictably old and damp. A small, severe foyer, almost like a church lobby, was followed by a slightly larger, equally severe room where a worn limestone staircase curved upward into the turret off to the left. Beyond lay a cavernous reception hall, which had an ancient and massive, smoke-marked, fireplace. The floor was stone blocks, worn smooth by centuries of use. This was the original great hall of the lodge, and it was easy to envision drunken lords with grease-stained leather jerkins, bad teeth (if they were lucky enough to have any teeth left at all), and dirty, food-packed beards, home from a day of stag or wild boar hunting, slouching around the fire and gnawing on bones while the womenfolk in their big aprons, wooden shoes, caps tied tightly beneath their sagging chins, silently refilled their tankards and tried not to arouse the dozing, ill-tempered dogs.
In spite of Lady Melody’s feminine touches, such as three golden harps on the hearth, chintz-covered furniture, and the world’s largest private collection of Rubens paintings, the room was too big, too cold, and too ill suited to life in the twenty-first century. Its only real function was as a conduit to the dining room, a cheerful eighteenth-century addition with mullioned windows and gleaming heaps of silver, and the library opposite, where the meeting was taking place behind closed doors. There was no noise, except for a phone ringing far away that was quickly answered.
I checked my watch and slipped into the shadows of the cavelike passageway beneath the stairs,
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