Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) by Phyllis A. Humphrey Page B
Authors: Phyllis A. Humphrey
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out myself."
"Who's your lunch date with?"
"If you must know, it's with Ms. Dillon."
"Oh? What for?"
"I need to know everything about Hammond's business affairs in Los Angeles. I'm planning to fly down tomorrow to interview his contacts."
I decided to challenge his motives. "You can't con me, Bradley Featherstone. You just want to see the gorgeous Amanda Dillon again. And the fact she's smart and has a prestigious job doesn't hurt."
His mouth turned up, and although the light from the window was behind him, his face got a little pink. "I admit I like working for her. Who wouldn't? And I'd like to prove I'm a good investigator."
He lingered in the room for another moment, biting his thumbnail, then took a look at his wristwatch, saluted in my direction, and headed out the door.
As soon as he'd gone, I called Novotny at his office, but he wasn't in, so I left a message. Then I called his home and left a message on his voicemail there.
Having done all I could for the moment to contact the man, I went to the coffee shop on the first floor of the office building for an early lunch. Velma Edison sat at the counter, and she called out loudly and patted the empty stool next to her, so—unless I wanted to be rude—I had no option but to take it.
Velma's in her forties and has never been married, which is probably a good thing, since she's the sort of person who could give wife-beaters a good name. She's a gossipy troublemaker who could win an Olympic gold medal for pessimism, but I hated eating in restaurants alone, so I sometimes put up with her.
"I see you're working for your brother again today," she said. "How's business?"
I never discussed Brad's business with anyone. In Velma's case, I took a perverse delight in making up outrageous stories of his investigations, which she seemed to believe. Once before, I invented a couple of murders he supposedly solved, so—now that he actually had a murder case—I said he was chasing an international jewel thief. While I waited for my lunch, I described scenes from the old Cary Grant movie, To Catch a Thief , which she failed to recognize.
Velma worked in a flower shop. I'd often wondered how a person with such a naturally sour disposition became a flower shop owner—an occupation I assumed required some joy and love of life. But what did I know? Apparently not wanting to leave her shop unattended for long, she finished her lunch quickly and hurried across the street to her store.
When she'd gone, Parry Williams, who owned the art gallery on the first floor, called and waved to me, and I joined her in a side booth. Parry was named for a place near where she was born in Canada and had a trace of what passes for a Canadian accent, mostly in the vowels, in her voice. She greeted me warmly the first day I worked for Brad and was the closest thing I had to a girlfriend in the building. Both of us single—she was widowed with five grown-up children she seldom visited—we sometimes went to dinner together or to a movie. Unfortunately, she liked films with sad endings, which you'd never guess from her otherwise jolly disposition.
"So you managed to get rid of Velma." She raised her eyes.
"She had to get back to her shop. Apparently left the door unlocked." I took a bite of the sandwich I'd brought with me to the booth. "So how's your business?"
"This is slow season."
"Is an office building a good location for an art gallery?"
"Yes, it works out very well. This building is still only partly occupied, and new renters for the offices upstairs need art to hang on their walls."
Much as I liked her personally, I found most of her merchandise consisted of large abstracts of the guess what I'm supposed to be variety and heaps of trash that someone had mistakenly dignified with the name of sculpture. Naturally, I hadn't been one of her customers. Impressionism is as far from photographic realism or even representational art as I cared to go. Nor had I seen any reason to buy her
"Who's your lunch date with?"
"If you must know, it's with Ms. Dillon."
"Oh? What for?"
"I need to know everything about Hammond's business affairs in Los Angeles. I'm planning to fly down tomorrow to interview his contacts."
I decided to challenge his motives. "You can't con me, Bradley Featherstone. You just want to see the gorgeous Amanda Dillon again. And the fact she's smart and has a prestigious job doesn't hurt."
His mouth turned up, and although the light from the window was behind him, his face got a little pink. "I admit I like working for her. Who wouldn't? And I'd like to prove I'm a good investigator."
He lingered in the room for another moment, biting his thumbnail, then took a look at his wristwatch, saluted in my direction, and headed out the door.
As soon as he'd gone, I called Novotny at his office, but he wasn't in, so I left a message. Then I called his home and left a message on his voicemail there.
Having done all I could for the moment to contact the man, I went to the coffee shop on the first floor of the office building for an early lunch. Velma Edison sat at the counter, and she called out loudly and patted the empty stool next to her, so—unless I wanted to be rude—I had no option but to take it.
Velma's in her forties and has never been married, which is probably a good thing, since she's the sort of person who could give wife-beaters a good name. She's a gossipy troublemaker who could win an Olympic gold medal for pessimism, but I hated eating in restaurants alone, so I sometimes put up with her.
"I see you're working for your brother again today," she said. "How's business?"
I never discussed Brad's business with anyone. In Velma's case, I took a perverse delight in making up outrageous stories of his investigations, which she seemed to believe. Once before, I invented a couple of murders he supposedly solved, so—now that he actually had a murder case—I said he was chasing an international jewel thief. While I waited for my lunch, I described scenes from the old Cary Grant movie, To Catch a Thief , which she failed to recognize.
Velma worked in a flower shop. I'd often wondered how a person with such a naturally sour disposition became a flower shop owner—an occupation I assumed required some joy and love of life. But what did I know? Apparently not wanting to leave her shop unattended for long, she finished her lunch quickly and hurried across the street to her store.
When she'd gone, Parry Williams, who owned the art gallery on the first floor, called and waved to me, and I joined her in a side booth. Parry was named for a place near where she was born in Canada and had a trace of what passes for a Canadian accent, mostly in the vowels, in her voice. She greeted me warmly the first day I worked for Brad and was the closest thing I had to a girlfriend in the building. Both of us single—she was widowed with five grown-up children she seldom visited—we sometimes went to dinner together or to a movie. Unfortunately, she liked films with sad endings, which you'd never guess from her otherwise jolly disposition.
"So you managed to get rid of Velma." She raised her eyes.
"She had to get back to her shop. Apparently left the door unlocked." I took a bite of the sandwich I'd brought with me to the booth. "So how's your business?"
"This is slow season."
"Is an office building a good location for an art gallery?"
"Yes, it works out very well. This building is still only partly occupied, and new renters for the offices upstairs need art to hang on their walls."
Much as I liked her personally, I found most of her merchandise consisted of large abstracts of the guess what I'm supposed to be variety and heaps of trash that someone had mistakenly dignified with the name of sculpture. Naturally, I hadn't been one of her customers. Impressionism is as far from photographic realism or even representational art as I cared to go. Nor had I seen any reason to buy her
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