Defense for the Devil by Kate Wilhelm

on our way home.
    “Centennial Bank,” Barbara said. “I was going there from here.” She looked at Bailey, who appeared bored unto death. “If it’s really no bother—”
    “No, ma’am. No bother. I’ll just put your things in here with her bag. And stand guard,” he added.
    “Thank you,” Barbara said, and shrugged at her escort. “I guess that’s all.”
    She left the bank and walked the two blocks to the other bank, where she rented a box exactly like the one she had just emptied, and ten minutes later Bailey entered, carrying all three bags. “She said I should carry them down for you,” he said in a patient voice. They were escorted to the vaults by a male this time.
    Bailey put the bags down, and she handed him a ten dollar bill. “You’ve been so kind,” she said.
    “Thanks. Appreciate that.” He left, and she put the bags in a drawer. Ringers, she realized; they looked all right, but were subtly different, and also empty, and lightweight.
    Afterward, back in her father’s office, she paced. Frank sat on the couch, grinning. “Now what?” she demanded.
    “I wouldn’t spoil this for anything. Relax, he’ll be along in a minute or two.”
    In a few minutes Ruthie buzzed them; Bailey had arrived. Barbara ran to open the door and saw Bailey pushing the wheelchair down the corridor toward her. Mrs. Fenton’s big paisley bag was on the seat, and Bailey was smiling.
    “Nothing to it,” he said.
    Barbara watched as he opened the paisley bag and drew out the duffel, then opened the back of the wheelchair and took out the briefcase, and finally removed the seat and brought out the suitcase. “See? Slick as a whistle. Sylvia was great.” He reassembled the chair.
    “Where is she?” Barbara asked, imagining the woman hobbling down on the street, giving orders right and left.
    “Talking to her broker on the first floor, making a scene, I bet. I came up the service elevator. Gotta run. Take her home, get a bite to eat, back here at seven-thirty. See ya.”
    Oh, God, Barbara thought in dismay. Eat. Again. She waited impatiently as Frank took his time opening the wall safe tucked way behind the bookshelves. As soon as everything was put away, the safe locked up, she said, “Dad, I have to go. Seven-thirty.”
    He watched with a faint smile as she snatched up her bag and ran out. Under his breath, he said, “Ah, Bobby.”
    Maggie was late; she had borrowed Irene’s car, she said, and it was cranky and slow. After Barbara introduced her to Frank, they gathered around the coffee table and the suitcase and briefcase. Bailey touched a key. A tiny red light came on in the upper corner, blinked once and went out. He scowled.
    “You understand that there are people who can get into them without destroying them,” he said darkly. “I’m not one of those people.” He looked at Barbara, who shrugged. Then he turned to Maggie.
    “Break them open,” Maggie said. “I don’t care.”
    “Right. Over at the desk.” He carried both cases to the desk and picked up his denim bag. When Barbara started to move around the desk to watch, he said, “Beat it.”
    She went back to the couch with Maggie and Frank.
    When everyone was settled, Frank asked, “Has Folsum House been an inn a long time?”
    “Ten years,” Maggie said. “That was another reason for the party, to celebrate my tenth year there.”
    “You started it?” Barbara asked, surprised again by this young woman. “At twenty-five?”
    “I had some help,” Maggie said. “Laurence’s father made it happen. After Mitch left for good, Papa Arno got me a job at Cliff Top Hotel. Mama Arno babysat the girls while I worked, and gradually I was learning something about how a hotel is run. Then Mr. Thielman bought Cliff Top. He does that, finds a hotel with potential and buys it, renovates it and trains local people, then sells it to a chain. He trained me.”
    “All this leads up to how you became an innkeeper at twenty-five?” Frank asked.