Her eyes widened again before narrowing to slits, and then she pursed her lips, clearly irritated. “Actually, on second thought, I’d prefer to know your thoughts about a contractor I’m thinking of suing. They’re taking too long to complete the job I hired them to do.”
It wasn’t lost on me that Murielle was making a casual reference to her contract with my husband and the boys, just like I’d made casual reference to Dutch with my statement.
She wanted to play? Okay . . . let’s play. “Oh,” I said sweetly. “Is that all? Well, that I can answer, no problem. If you bring that suit, you’ll lose. And more than just legal fees, if you get my drift.”
“I don’t,” she said, still squinting meanly at me. “What does that mean?”
“It means that things will get leaked to the press which maybe you were hoping to keep quiet. Things like how you have a close relative, probably a sibling, who’s a drug addict and a gambler. Your brother, I believe. He’s been burning through the family money like a gasoline salesman at a bonfire. And your father’s mental condition continues to deteriorate. I wonder what people would think if they knew the head of Milonas Enterprises had dementia? Oh, and there’s a pretty big scandal involving you and a girlfriend that could come out. It’s something you’ve been working hard to keep hushed up, but I suspect that, should you continue to throw your litigious weight around, it’ll be revealed. And that scandal, Ms. McKenna, well . . . that’s not one your image will ever recover from.”
Murielle’s face flushed and for the first time I saw her beauty marred. The flush didn’t spread evenly, but formed a series of red blotches on her face and neck. She seemed to know that her appearance had been compromised, because her hand flew to her neck to cover her throat. “Stop it!” she hissed.
I got up and collected my bag. Candice rose too, her expression unreadable. “Like I said, suing that contractor would be unwise, Ms. McKenna. I think you should find a way to work it out with your contractor, and I’m sorry, but we really do have to go.”
I began to exit and I saw Candice pull out her business card and lay it on the glass desk. She then said, “If you’d like me to run that background check for you, just send me his info to that e-mail address and I’ll take care of it.”
We then made like Elvis and left the building.
Chapter Two
“I’m not gonna sugarcoat it, Sundance,” Candice said after we’d gotten to the car and hopped in. “But that was epic.”
I grinned. “Did you see her face?” I asked, mimicking the way Murielle had clutched her throat and looked stricken.
Candice laughed all the way down the long drive. “I can’t believe you pulled all that stuff out of the ether! I mean, I did a thorough check on her, and except for the brother’s drug problem, there wasn’t even a hint of any of those other scandals!”
“Child’s play,” I said smugly, wiping my hands together for emphasis.
Our cool satisfaction lasted exactly ten more seconds until my phone rang. “What did you say to Murielle McKenna?!” Dutch demanded.
Uh-oh, I thought. “Why? What did she say?”
“She said that we’re fired!” Dutch yelled.
“Oh, crap,” I whispered.
“What?” Candice asked, nudging me with her elbow.
“Abigail,” Dutch said, using my full name, which meant he was really, really, reeeeeeally mad. “Do you know how much money we’ve got on the line with those three rooms? Do you understand that we’d have to refund her most of what she’s paid us even though the special order materials for her remodels have all been ordered and they’d be nonrefundable on our end, which means that we’d have to eat the cost, which would then mean we’re sunk unless we can complete the project?”
“Wait!” I said. “Don’t you have a contract? I mean, don’t you have any legal redress in case she fired you to help cover your capital outlay?” (When I’m freaked-out, I use big words like “legal redress” and “capital outlay.”)
“Of course we have a contract! But she had her lawyers tweak it so that she didn’t have to cover the cost of materials unless the job passes code! If she fires us before we finish the job, then the job doesn’t meet code and we’re out the money!”
Gulp.
By now Candice had pulled the car over to the side of the road and I was holding my phone so that we could both hear him. (Of course, Dutch was yelling loud enough so that most of you could probably hear him . . . but I digress.)
Candice looked at me and winced. I decided then that my best defense might be a good offense. “Well, maybe I would’ve been more cooperative with her if my husband had told me about how his client has been making the moves on him!”
Dutch made a low, guttural sound of irritation. “I didn’t tell you, Abby, because I didn’t want you to call her up or head over there and confront her when I was handling the situation. She’s not the first woman to come on to me, you know.”
Candice and I both sucked in a breath. Did he really just say that to me? Narrowing my eyes, and speaking through clenched teeth, I said, “Handling it just fine, eh? Is that why you asked Candice to take me over there and play nice with her? Oh, and maybe I should also ask if this is going to be the regular routine from now on for the hordes of women who come on to you?”
Dutch sighed heavily and we heard some muffled knocking. I had a pretty good idea he was hitting his forehead with the phone. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “That was out of line.”
“You’ll get no argument on that from me!” I snapped.
“Edgar,” he said gently, using his favorite nickname for me. “I am sorry. But this is serious. If she fires us, we’re screwed.”
“Well, it’s not my fault!” I shouted, all worked up and unwilling to be mollified. “You know I’m not good with people! Why’d you send me in there to play with a tigress when you know I pack a Taser for those times when the cats get all mean and snarly?”
Candice reached for the phone and plucked it out of my hand. Putting it to her ear, she said, “We’ll fix this, Rivers.” She then hung up, tossed the phone back into my lap, and pulled a U-turn.
“How are we going to fix this?” I asked her, my voice pitchy with panic.
“By going back there and making nice, Abby,” Candice said. “And agreeing to her terms.”
“What terms?”
“She wanted you to look into that guy she wants to hire, right? Do it.”
My jaw fell open. “Are you serious? Candice, I can’t! It’s ethically wrong!”
“I’m not telling you to reveal his secrets,” Candice said. “I’m telling you to look up a few tidbits that can’t possibly be used against him—a few personal but actually impersonal things about him, like that he cheats on his golf game or something silly like that—and we’ll feed them to the tigress to show her that she wins this round and there’s no reason to bankrupt our husbands.”
I made a face at her. “This sucks.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “So let’s get in, apologize, and get out as fast as possible. Oh, and one more thing, Sundance. This time, maybe let me do the talking.”
• • •
An hour and a half later we’d made peace with the tigress. Or, more accurately, my partner and best friend had made peace. I’d sat quietly and nodded a lot while Candice oozed charm and solicitude and heartfelt apologies for our rush to exit earlier. And then Candice nudged me with her elbow as she said, “And of course Abby can look into the energy of this associate of yours. Right, Abby?”
I took a deep breath and ate a big bite of crow. “Sure. Of course, Ms. McKenna.”
“Perfect,” she purred. Then she looked at me expectantly.
“Oh . . . uh . . . you mean now?” I asked.
Murielle bounced one eyebrow in reply.
“Okay, so now.” I averted my gaze to the floor while I gathe
red my intuition. “So, this man in question—I don’t need to know his name, but think about him real hard so that he shows up in your energy. . . .”
It took a few moments, but soon, through Murielle’s energy, I felt a connection to the man in question, and I did not like what I was picking up for him. The guy was a scuzzball.
I’d also already decided that I’d share nothing too personal about him with Murielle; instead, I’d simply focus on how he related to her, which I doubted she’d find fault with—if she even noticed. It was the only way to hold on to my ethics and still appear to be cooperative.
“He’s someone who’s quite cunning—even creatively so—and he’s careful about money, and details. He likes to win, and he’ll do anything to make sure he comes out on top. Still, to your earlier point about the way he keeps his personal life close to the chest, I think the reason he reveals so little about himself is that he’s learned to be protective of his private information so that it can’t be used against him. But I also want to warn you, there’s a trace of the pathological in him. It’s what drives him. He’ll do or say almost anything to come out the winner, no matter the consequences.”
“What about personal relationships?” she asked, interrupting my train of thought.
“You mean his romantic connections?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to laugh. From what I could pick up, this guy used people to get exactly what he wanted; then he threw them away like garbage. He was someone who thought romance was for morons. I also had to tread very carefully here, because we were dipping into waters about this man’s personal life that I didn’t feel comfortable sharing with Murielle. So, again I approached her question as it related to her directly. “He’s not attached to anyone that I can see,” I said, which was true. Interestingly, however, I saw the strong possibility that Murielle and the scuzzball would end up having a brief but very physically passionate connection. That part I also kept to myself. Let Murielle play with fire and get burned, which was what she deserved after going after my husband so aggressively.
“Can I trust him?” she asked me next.
I sighed. I couldn’t lie. “No. Truthfully, you’ll have to keep your eye on him, because he’d double-cross his own mother. He’s not someone who recognizes loyalty or love, but he does recognize opportunity. As long as he works for you, he’ll do whatever he needs to do in order to get the job done quickly and efficiently, but at the first hint of a better deal somewhere else, he’ll be gone.”
Murielle smiled. “He’s perfect.”
“Great,” I said. She’d get no argument from me. I hoped Murielle and her scuzzball associate double-crossed each other into oblivion. “Anyway, that’s all I’m picking up for him.”
Murielle sniffed, like she didn’t think I’d said enough. Candice nudged me again with her elbow. I badly wanted to roll my eyes, but made an effort to tune into Murielle’s energy once more to find something she might like to hear. “If you’re thinking of having a cosmetic procedure sometime soon, you’ll really like the results,” I said.
Almost instantly her frown turned upside down and she practically purred. “Really?”
“Yep. It’ll look very natural too. No one will be able to tell you had the work done.”
Murielle sat up in her chair and arched her back slightly, the way a cat might react when you petted it just the right way. “Do tell,” she said, her eyes sparkling with interest.
Inwardly I smiled. I’d found the key to making nicey-nice with her. All I had to do was focus my intuition on the superficial and Murielle was bound to be happy. “I see a whole series of clothes with your name on them,” I said.
Murielle sucked in a breath. “My new clothing line!” she said. “Tell me everything!”
• • •
Fifteen minutes later, we were once again driving away from Murielle’s. She’d seemed quite happy with all the wonderful things I’d told her about the success of her new clothing line. It’d been an effort to keep coming up with new ways to say, “The clothes will be very pretty, everyone will love your designs, and you’ll make lots of money from the venture.”
“Are we heading back to the office?” I asked, rubbing my temples.
“We are,” she said. “I know that you’ve got clients tonight, but we’ve got a ton of calls to make on behalf of the boys.”
I groaned. An article in Texas Monthly from four months earlier had featured a spread on the popularity of panic rooms among the wealthy set, and it had devoted a whole five pages to Safe Chambers—the name of our panic room building company. The article had even shown a nice photo of Dave, standing next to his truck, parked in front of a large mansion where we’d installed a hidden room under the stairs. Ever since that article came out, we’d been getting busier and busier, and I think we all had expected for there to be an influx of interest, but nobody expected for the level of interest to continue to rise month after month. I knew it was mostly because Dutch, Dave, and Brice had a great crew who got right to work and completed the job quickly and without a lot of hassle. Dave was excellent at the retrofitting of the rooms in the existing space, and he didn’t skimp on materials or cut corners, and our customers had been really pleased. One thing about the one-percent crowd—they don’t hesitate to recommend and talk up a contractor they love.
As a result, we’d been flooded with more and more referrals every week, which was nice, but it was starting to get a little hairy for the five of us. “They need to hire somebody to do their secretarial stuff,” I said.
“I think the hard part is finding the time to interview people.”
“We could do it.”
“Oh, no,” Candice said with a laugh. “No way am I hiring my husband’s admin.”
“Why would that be so bad?”
“The second the new employee makes a mistake, or calls in sick, or doesn’t work out—we’re to blame.”
“Ah,” I said. “Yeah, you’ve got a point. But this extra workload is starting to dig into our schedules, Candice.”
“Which is why we’ll put the boys on a deadline. We’ll agree to pinch-hit for them until the end of the month, and if they haven’t found someone to run the office by then, one of them will have to do it.”
“I like it,” I said.
“Don’t cave, though, when they miss the deadline and ask you to give them more time.”
“Why do you think I’d cave?”
“You’ll do anything for Dutch when he gives you that look.”
I laughed. “What look?”
Candice tried to mimic a sad-puppy-dog face. I laughed harder. “That’s a seriously good impression.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“Okay, I won’t cave. They have three weeks to get it together and hire somebody.”
“And don’t cave,” Candice pressed.
“I won’t!”
We both knew I’d totally cave.
• • •
Back at our office, which overlooked Congress Avenue and was composed of a series of rooms connected by a tiny lobby, I followed Candice into her immaculately kept office, and waited for her to print off my list of calls. “You can start on these clients,” she said. “They’re all within close geographic proximity to each other. Since my sweet husband totally lowballed the estimate on the Broadwell house, and Dutch is too busy with the accounting side, Dave is going to be doing all the estimates this month until he can figure out who he wants to train from his crew to take over that duty.”
I worked hard to hide a smirk. Poor Brice. He didn’t have any kind of construction background to draw from—unlike Dutch, who’d worked construction in college—and Brice had done his best to give a fair price on a panic room that had turned out to be short about ten grand. Luckily, Dave and Dutch were able to make it work without losing too much, but Brice was no longer giving estimates to buil
d anything bigger than a doghouse.
“This Saturday, I’ve loaded in two stops on the roster where we’ve completed the work, but there’s an issue that Dave will need to address and fix.” Candice paused to point to my spreadsheet at the fourth and last names on my list. “At both Mrs. Schultz’s house and Andy Roswell’s residence, the panic room door isn’t closing.”
My eyes widened. “That’s not good,” I said.
“True,” Candice agreed. “But it’s easily fixed. These two locations have one of our pocket door models, which requires a motor to slide the door sideways. The manufacturer sent us a notification last month about some of the motors dying due to a bad wire. In turn, we sent out an e-mail to everyone with this model door, letting them know that we’d be replacing the motor as soon as the kits arrived from the manufacturer, and the Roswells and Mrs. Schultz are the last two on the list. They’re also the only two that’ve recently reported an issue.”
“It’s always in the last place you look,” I said with a smirk.
“Right?” Candice said. “Anyway, when you speak to Mrs. Schultz, you’ll have to talk nice and loud, and repeat the appointment details a few times. Ask her to write it down.”
“Is she forgetful?” I asked.
“Definitely. She’s sweet, but she’s elderly and she can’t hear and her memory seems to be fading. Last week Dave arranged with her to send one of his crew out to fix the door, but when he got there, she claimed not to know anything about the appointment and wouldn’t let him in. Then, just yesterday she left a message on the company voice mail that her door wasn’t working and she wanted it fixed right away.”
“Poor thing,” I said with a small tsk. Getting on in years isn’t always a picnic.
“Give Dave the same thirty minutes at Mrs. Schultz’s before setting the next appointment,” Candice continued. “You don’t have to worry about his time once he reaches the Roswells’ place; that’ll be his last stop of the afternoon.”
A Panicked Premonition Page 3