old, although they’d stopped keeping track of points awhile ago. Triple-digit numbers got unwieldy without an actual scorecard. “Cool your jets, woman. I’m just saying. Bringing someone down from another city? That’s expense above and beyond, isn’t it?” Mallard’s services didn’t come cheaply, he knew that.
“Maybe she could have hired a party planner,” Ginny said. “But there’s a difference between party planning and what I do. A personal concierge handles everything , even the unexpected bumps and disasters. Which means we have a lot more control over the situation, without having to get everything okayed on a micromanager scale. They hire me because they trust me. It’s like having a personal assistant, for a set time, the length of the project.”
He knew that, mostly, but talking it out, or hearing it talked out, helped him think.
“And, let’s be honest, there aren’t that many people doing this—and most of them prefer long-term clients, not one-offs.”
“So for an older woman who didn’t want the bother, only the result, and probably prefers personal recommendations rather than doing an Internet search, you’d be the perfect choice.”
“Exactly.”
And, he thought but knew better than to say out loud, Ginny’s ego would assume that of course her reputation was spreading, and not look too much further. “So you get a call from this woman, haul down there, and oh, hey, no woman but a dead body?”
She sighed. “Dead body, in a house that didn’t look like it belonged to an older woman, and what looked like the setup of a small, probably illegal business,” she said. “Unless the local DMV is seriously outsourcing their workload . . .”
“Yeah, no. Oregon’s a little crunchy-granola, but I don’t think so.”
“Neither did I.”
“So yeah, this is either the world’s largest convocation of coincidences, and cause for a hairy eyeball if you ask me—which you did—but then the dead guy’s got your contact info on him? Sorry, Gin. At the risk of repeating myself, that’s not coincidence. Either the dead guy was the one who contacted you, pretending to be an old lady, or someone stashed the paper in his pocket, probably after killing him. Either way, it’s not good.”
“Yes, but why? I mean, either scenario? It’s one thing to build a conspiracy theory, but why would there even be a conspiracy? Why would someone want me involved in this? Let’s not forget that she—someone—paid my retainer to start. So they were willing to sink a thousand dollars into this, plus the cost of my rental car and hotel. And yes, the check cleared,” she said before he could ask. “It was PayPal, though, so tough to look into that without a court order.”
“And the possibility of that happening would be . . . ?”
“Low to none,” she said. “The cops didn’t seem interested in anything other than why I was in the house, and if I touched anything or saw anything—they’re treating my mystery nonclient as irrelevant.”
“Or they don’t believe there was a client at all.”
They looked at each other through the screen, both frowning.
“I told them. I showed them the email. I told them I’d gotten a retainer.” And they’d written it all down, and then asked her again, as though they were expecting her answer to change. “Shit.”
“You need to pass on that bit about the PayPal, so they can establish someone did pay you to come down there. Pronto. Just, you know, in case.” He was being paranoid, but he wasn’t going to apologize for it.
“Right.” She leaned out of frame to do something—probably, if he knew her, to start a list of things to do on her tablet.
Teddy leaned back in his chair, trying to think of what else Ginny should do, to keep her nose clean, and looked up to see Penny on the shelf over the desk, washing her paw calmly, as though she’d been there all night. “And when did you come in, missy?” he asked
“Maybe she could have hired a party planner,” Ginny said. “But there’s a difference between party planning and what I do. A personal concierge handles everything , even the unexpected bumps and disasters. Which means we have a lot more control over the situation, without having to get everything okayed on a micromanager scale. They hire me because they trust me. It’s like having a personal assistant, for a set time, the length of the project.”
He knew that, mostly, but talking it out, or hearing it talked out, helped him think.
“And, let’s be honest, there aren’t that many people doing this—and most of them prefer long-term clients, not one-offs.”
“So for an older woman who didn’t want the bother, only the result, and probably prefers personal recommendations rather than doing an Internet search, you’d be the perfect choice.”
“Exactly.”
And, he thought but knew better than to say out loud, Ginny’s ego would assume that of course her reputation was spreading, and not look too much further. “So you get a call from this woman, haul down there, and oh, hey, no woman but a dead body?”
She sighed. “Dead body, in a house that didn’t look like it belonged to an older woman, and what looked like the setup of a small, probably illegal business,” she said. “Unless the local DMV is seriously outsourcing their workload . . .”
“Yeah, no. Oregon’s a little crunchy-granola, but I don’t think so.”
“Neither did I.”
“So yeah, this is either the world’s largest convocation of coincidences, and cause for a hairy eyeball if you ask me—which you did—but then the dead guy’s got your contact info on him? Sorry, Gin. At the risk of repeating myself, that’s not coincidence. Either the dead guy was the one who contacted you, pretending to be an old lady, or someone stashed the paper in his pocket, probably after killing him. Either way, it’s not good.”
“Yes, but why? I mean, either scenario? It’s one thing to build a conspiracy theory, but why would there even be a conspiracy? Why would someone want me involved in this? Let’s not forget that she—someone—paid my retainer to start. So they were willing to sink a thousand dollars into this, plus the cost of my rental car and hotel. And yes, the check cleared,” she said before he could ask. “It was PayPal, though, so tough to look into that without a court order.”
“And the possibility of that happening would be . . . ?”
“Low to none,” she said. “The cops didn’t seem interested in anything other than why I was in the house, and if I touched anything or saw anything—they’re treating my mystery nonclient as irrelevant.”
“Or they don’t believe there was a client at all.”
They looked at each other through the screen, both frowning.
“I told them. I showed them the email. I told them I’d gotten a retainer.” And they’d written it all down, and then asked her again, as though they were expecting her answer to change. “Shit.”
“You need to pass on that bit about the PayPal, so they can establish someone did pay you to come down there. Pronto. Just, you know, in case.” He was being paranoid, but he wasn’t going to apologize for it.
“Right.” She leaned out of frame to do something—probably, if he knew her, to start a list of things to do on her tablet.
Teddy leaned back in his chair, trying to think of what else Ginny should do, to keep her nose clean, and looked up to see Penny on the shelf over the desk, washing her paw calmly, as though she’d been there all night. “And when did you come in, missy?” he asked
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