a partner’s share, but this was something I had to do, even though I’d been forced to create Erotic Designs by Randi Wolff to do it. I kept it very quiet—no web page, no advertising. I worked exclusively with a distribution company in Los Angeles. But Randi’s startling success often kept me up late at night, fulfilling orders in my attic workroom in the sprawling stucco mansion at 100 Royal Palm Drive.
When we reached the backroom, Alyce handed me my special order, which I shoved in my purse without looking. Animation lit her face as she drew a deep breath and prepared to launch into something she’d evidently been bursting to say all day. “Have you heard what they’re saying about Jeb Brannigan?” she demanded. “I never heard such crap. He wouldn’t touch that tarted-up aging bit of trailer trash if she came to him on her knees, begging.”
I blinked at that one. Jeb Brannigan scored with every female he could lay his hands on. I sincerely doubted he made exceptions for social climbing trailer trash, particularly one who looked like Vanessa Kellerman. I did a fast mental review of Golden Beach relationships. Jeb was in the class ahead of me in high school, two years younger than Alyce, her boyfriend Gene, and Chad Yarnell.
“I didn’t realize you knew Jeb,” I said .
“My daddy and the old C hief were buds. Jeb and me spent a lot of time together when we were kids. Fishing, swimming, picnics, barbecues, even some hunting. He was a wild one, but that’s what boys are, right? I mean, look at Scott.”
Right.
“You know Jeb’s a chaser,” I said carefully, “so what makes you think he and Vanessa Kellerman weren’t an item?”
Alyce beamed a “gotcha” smile. “‘Cuz Gene and I were out in our boat last Sunday, and there’s Jeb and some girl barely over the legal limit making out like mad on Tucker’s Island. I mean, smack in the middle of Golden Beach Inlet in full view of everybody .” Alyce backed an inch or two down from her high horse, and shrugged. “Okay, so they were up near the underbrush and I used the binoculars, but it was Jeb and some kid young enough to be Vanessa Kellerman’s daughter.”
Interesting. If Jeb really was doing the nasty with Mrs. Santa, he wasn’t completely ensnared in her charms. Not enough to deliberately bump Martin Kellerman overboard. Not enough to risk a charge of murder.
“You’re sure it was Jeb?”
“Told you. I’ve known him all my life.” Alyce’s brown eyes shone with the light of the true believer. She poked her head out the door, and sighed. “Line-up at the cutting counter. “Gotta go.” She frowned, squirmed a bit. “Sorry for the tirade. I know you don’t like Jeb, but all these rumors made me mad.” Alyce dashed through the gauntlet of drapery fabrics, past buttons and ribbons, and quickly dispatched her assistant back to the cutting tables.
Slowly I followed, my mind whirling with possibilities. No need to check out my special order. Alyce would add it to my discounted, tax-exempt bill, which I paid once a month. Easier to keep track of my frequently exorbitant fabric expenses that way.
Unfortunately, there was no way around a glaring fact—I was going to have to talk to Jeb Brannigan. Aargh!
I made it to the Farmer’s Market on the old Tamiami Trail five minutes before it closed. In addition to an impressive array of locally grown vegies, they make their own gator jerky. It’s a taste I’ve never acquired, but Scott likes it, and even if I hadn’t wanted to ask him some questions, I would have bought the jerky. He’d had a tough night and deserved a treat.
But when I pulled into the driveway, Scott’s red ’ 06 Vette was noticeably absent. Mom, never one to favor one child over another, had given it to him the year she helped me establish DreamWear. Scott loved that car, though why a guy built like a Viking warrior would want to compress himself into a space the size of a shoebox was beyond me. It wasn’t
When we reached the backroom, Alyce handed me my special order, which I shoved in my purse without looking. Animation lit her face as she drew a deep breath and prepared to launch into something she’d evidently been bursting to say all day. “Have you heard what they’re saying about Jeb Brannigan?” she demanded. “I never heard such crap. He wouldn’t touch that tarted-up aging bit of trailer trash if she came to him on her knees, begging.”
I blinked at that one. Jeb Brannigan scored with every female he could lay his hands on. I sincerely doubted he made exceptions for social climbing trailer trash, particularly one who looked like Vanessa Kellerman. I did a fast mental review of Golden Beach relationships. Jeb was in the class ahead of me in high school, two years younger than Alyce, her boyfriend Gene, and Chad Yarnell.
“I didn’t realize you knew Jeb,” I said .
“My daddy and the old C hief were buds. Jeb and me spent a lot of time together when we were kids. Fishing, swimming, picnics, barbecues, even some hunting. He was a wild one, but that’s what boys are, right? I mean, look at Scott.”
Right.
“You know Jeb’s a chaser,” I said carefully, “so what makes you think he and Vanessa Kellerman weren’t an item?”
Alyce beamed a “gotcha” smile. “‘Cuz Gene and I were out in our boat last Sunday, and there’s Jeb and some girl barely over the legal limit making out like mad on Tucker’s Island. I mean, smack in the middle of Golden Beach Inlet in full view of everybody .” Alyce backed an inch or two down from her high horse, and shrugged. “Okay, so they were up near the underbrush and I used the binoculars, but it was Jeb and some kid young enough to be Vanessa Kellerman’s daughter.”
Interesting. If Jeb really was doing the nasty with Mrs. Santa, he wasn’t completely ensnared in her charms. Not enough to deliberately bump Martin Kellerman overboard. Not enough to risk a charge of murder.
“You’re sure it was Jeb?”
“Told you. I’ve known him all my life.” Alyce’s brown eyes shone with the light of the true believer. She poked her head out the door, and sighed. “Line-up at the cutting counter. “Gotta go.” She frowned, squirmed a bit. “Sorry for the tirade. I know you don’t like Jeb, but all these rumors made me mad.” Alyce dashed through the gauntlet of drapery fabrics, past buttons and ribbons, and quickly dispatched her assistant back to the cutting tables.
Slowly I followed, my mind whirling with possibilities. No need to check out my special order. Alyce would add it to my discounted, tax-exempt bill, which I paid once a month. Easier to keep track of my frequently exorbitant fabric expenses that way.
Unfortunately, there was no way around a glaring fact—I was going to have to talk to Jeb Brannigan. Aargh!
I made it to the Farmer’s Market on the old Tamiami Trail five minutes before it closed. In addition to an impressive array of locally grown vegies, they make their own gator jerky. It’s a taste I’ve never acquired, but Scott likes it, and even if I hadn’t wanted to ask him some questions, I would have bought the jerky. He’d had a tough night and deserved a treat.
But when I pulled into the driveway, Scott’s red ’ 06 Vette was noticeably absent. Mom, never one to favor one child over another, had given it to him the year she helped me establish DreamWear. Scott loved that car, though why a guy built like a Viking warrior would want to compress himself into a space the size of a shoebox was beyond me. It wasn’t
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