Her Man Friday

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  "I appreciate Mr. Kimball's accommodating me this way on such short notice," he said aloud, reluctantly slipping back into Leonard mode.

  She waved a hand as she typed a few instructions into the computer. "Oh, Schuyler doesn't even know you're here. He's been in Bermuda since Thursday and isn't expected back until next week. And even if he were here, he never troubles himself with this kind of thing. It would fall to me anyway."

  Which went a long way toward explaining how someone was robbing him blind, Leo thought. Aloud, he only said, "How much time does he spend here at the estate?"

  "Not as much as he'd like," she said as she scanned the computer screen and typed in some more instructions. "He travels quite a bit for the company, and even more for his personal enjoyment. And he has a half-dozen private residences, all over the world. Between his work and his mood swings, he could be anywhere on the planet at any given time."

  "Don't you have a hard time keeping track of him?"

  Evidently having concluded whatever mumbo-jumbo she had to complete to get the system up and working, Lily Rigby straightened. And Leo tried not to become suicidal over the fact that when she did, her jacket draped down over the creamy swells of her breasts again.

  "We're frequently in touch via the phone or e-mail," she said.

  "Why don't you travel with him?" Leo asked the obvious. "Wouldn't that make things easier?"

  She turned and offered him a knowing smile.

  "Well. I'm really needed here at home far more than I am wherever he is. And besides, I don't want to cramp his style, do I?"

  Leo smiled back, a bit less knowingly. "Don't you? I'd think that would be part of your job description. If not cramping Mr. Kimball's style, then certainly organizing it."

  She lifted her shoulders and let them drop again, obviously unconcerned about that. "There are a lot of women in Mr. Kimball's life," she said in as matter-of-fact a tone as Leo had ever heard, surprising him. "They frequently travel with him. And they often misunderstand my role in the scheme of things. It gets a bit awkward."

  Wow, he thought. She was a really understanding mistress if she let Kimball flaunt his other girlfriends so blatantly in front of her. Just how much was the guy paying her anyway? Then again, maybe a cool disposition was exactly what a man looked for in a mistress, precisely so that he could maintain a variety of relationships. Well, a cool disposition outside the bedroom anyway, he amended. Inside the bedroom, however…

  Leo let his mind wander freely over that one for a moment, until the images parading through his head became far too explicit, enough so that his baggy tweed trousers began to feel much less baggy. With a none too courteous nudge to his libido, he returned his attention to the matter at hand. Unfortunately, that meant he was looking at Lily Rigby, and those illicit ideas began to creep right back into his brain.

  "Naturally," she continued easily as she circled to the front of the desk, clearly oblivious to his salacious intentions for her, "I do travel with Mr. Kimball from time to time. But he and I have both come to the conclusion that I'm generally needed here at Ashling more than I'm needed with him on his travels. I e-mail him his daily agenda, and, as I said, we speak frequently on the phone. Modern technology has made jobs like mine infinitely more manageable."

  Oh, Leo didn't know about that. He didn't want Miss Rigby selling herself short. There was obviously a lot to be said for her basic, not-so-technological talents. Or, at least he assumed there was a lot to be said for those. Schuyler Kimball was a connoisseur of only the finest tilings in life, after all. And Lily Rigby was definitely one of those.

  She might not be the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, he thought, thinking back on that whole cat story she'd told him a few minutes ago. But, hey, a woman didn't have to be a rocket scientist to be good at her job. Unless, of course, he amended, she happened to be a rocket scientist. But that was beside the point. The point was that there were some jobs where little things like, oh… thinking… knowledge… a capacity for understanding… just weren't a major concern of employment.

  "Well," she said, "if there's nothing else you'll be needing?"

  He shook his head. "No. Thank you, Miss Rigby. Everything I need is right here."

  "I have a pager," she said, flipping open her jacket again to indicate the little black box fixed at her waist, bestowing upon him another glimpse of her less technological—and extremely sensational—gifts. She gestured toward the telephone on the desk. "If something comes up, just press number one on the speed dial. That will beep me, and I'll know you need me here. Wherever I am on the estate, I can be here in ten minutes at the most."

  An unwanted realization quickly materialized in Leo's brain, and no amount of trying to tamp it down would roust it. He already needed Lily Rigby. Badly. Only not quite the way she was thinking.

  He bit back a frustrated sigh. Perfect. This was just perfect. The last thing he should be doing was indulging in libidinous plans for one of Schuyler Kimball's favorite playthings. With any luck at all, he'd be able to wind up his business here at the estate within a few days' time, and then he could forget he ever saw Lily Rigby.

  Well, he could pretend to forget he ever saw Lily Rigby, anyway.

  He watched her go, inhaling deeply as she passed by him because she just smelled so damned good. Like a field full of exotic spices. That he wanted to wallow in. For a long time. Naked. With one final, heart-stopping smile, she reached back to close the door behind herself, and then Leo was left alone in Schuyler Kimball's personal, private realm.

  Immediately, he loosened his necktie, as uncomfortable in the idiotic persona of Leonard Freiberger as he had been when he first ventured out on his relentless pursuit to find the missing Kimball millions. He still couldn't remember how he'd been talked into submitting to this particular requirement of his employment, this wearing of the geek. But there it was just the same—Leo Friday, who had once seriously considered pursuing a career as a professional hockey player, who had fought in Golden Gloves competitions as an adolescent, whose nickname in high school had been Bloody Friday. He sighed with much gusto. Now he was lame Leonard Freiberger. And a beautiful woman had seen him that way.

  Dammit.

  After shrugging out of his jacket, he rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows, then tossed his leather, satchel-style briefcase onto the desk and unbuckled it. From inside, he withdrew a stack of his own diskettes that were rubber-banded together, then set them next to the ones Miss Rigby had placed on the desk. That done, he folded himself into Kimball's comfy, throne-like desk chair, wheeled himself over to the computer, and went to work.

  After weeks, months even, of virtually circling the globe for the board of directors of Kimball Technologies, Leo had uncovered nothing remarkable. Certainly, there had been discrepancies here and there in the records, a few things that didn't add up. But those instances hadn't been anything that he wouldn't normally find within a corporation the size of Kimball's. And none of them had been the result of any criminal or fraudulent behavior. Certainly none of them had added up to anything even remotely resembling fifty million dollars. In most cases, they had occurred due to human error. In one or two more, it had simply been the push of a wrong button.

  Coming here to Kimball's estate was a last resort. Leo knew it. The board of directors knew it. If he didn't find anything here, then he was, as the students at St. Francis in the Fields parochial school used to say, S.O.L.

  That was why he was confident that there was something here. And that was why he suspected that not only did Schuyler Kimball know about the missing funds, he was doubtless responsible for them. Naturally, Leo had voiced those very suspicions to the board of directors, but they had all but shouted him down before he'd even finished justifying his feelings.

  It was impossible, they had assured him, that Kimball could be the one funneling the money elsewhere. And not just because Schuyler Kimball was a complete tightwad, a man who didn't spend money on anything other than himself. But because ther
e was no way he would filter money anywhere, unless it was into a personal account. And if the money were going into a personal account, then why would he be so secretive about it? It was his money, after all.

  Leo still didn't have an answer to that. But he intended to find one. As far as he was concerned, there were all kinds of reasons that a man might keep a secret bank account, few of them legitimate or ethical. Nevertheless, he'd been hired to find out what had happened to fifty million dollars last fiscal year. And that was what he would do. After that, whatever happened would be between the board of directors and Schuyler Kimball. Frankly, it was none of Leo's concern who did what with Kimball's money, so long as he found it, as he had been hired to do.

  Unfortunately, there were a lot of people in the company who were doing what with Kimball's money, something that had significantly hampered Leo's search. Every office at every outpost of Kimball Technologies claimed someone who had the authority to okay the transfer or spending of funds. At least there was always a ceiling on how much those people entrusted with money could spend, but even at that, there was way too much room—and opportunity—for error. And for doubt. And for theft.

  So far, there was no one other than Kimball whom Leo suspected of dabbling in a little creative bookkeeping. Still, that didn't rule out the possibility completely that there might be a thief at large. But if it wasn't Kimball doing the funneling, then there was someone, somewhere, who was. And if it wasn't Kimball, then whoever was doing it had no right to do it, something that made the perpetrator a sneaky, finkish little crook. And if that was the case, then there was a good chance that the thief was someone right here at the estate, right under Kimball's nose. So Leo rehearsed in his head again what little he knew about the inhabitants of Ashling.

  Anybody who knew their way around a computer could find a way to "update" a file in a manner that was in no way legal. There were scores of daily workers who pretty much roamed freely about Ashling. There were doubtless regular visitors—many of them Kimball's colleagues and employees—who might use their visiting time for a little recreational stealing. Kimball's mother and sister also lived here with him. And who knew what kind of family dynamics—i.e., dysfunctions—were indigenous to the Kimballs of Bucks County?

  Too, as reluctant as he was to do it, Leo had to keep Kimball's social secretary, the delicious Miss Rigby, under consideration. Maybe she wasn't as quick as a brown fox, but she was the mistress of a man who made women a recreational sport. She might feel like a woman scorned and all that. She might even have an accomplice up her sleeve—or under her slip. Who knew what her real story was?

  He made a mental note to find out more about the personal lives of the people living and working at Ashling. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back to watch in silence as row upon row of numbers appeared on the computer screen in front of him. Somewhere in Schuyler Kimball's well-tended, high-tech, state-of-the-art, billionaire world, there was a rat stealing millions of dollars worth of cheese. And even if it took Leo the rest of the year to do it, he was going to find that rat.

  And then, cool as a wheel of Edam, he was going to trap it.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Lily was in the kitchen, stealing a few moments to brew herself a much-needed cup of tea, when she heard the scream. And not one of those run-of-the-mill, oh-great-what-now kind of screams, either. But a truly horrific, straight-from-the-darkest-part-of-the-soul scream.

  And she muttered, "Oh, great. What now?" As usual, a second scream quickly followed the first, and she rolled her eyes heavenward, giving her tea bag a few more quick dips before withdrawing it from the cup to squeeze out the excess with her fingers. As she licked those clean, she used her other hand to add two teaspoons of sugar and a healthy dose of milk to the brew. The third scream—right on schedule—came just as she finished stirring, and she sighed wearily, knowing her much needed cup of afternoon tea would be cold by the time she returned. Again.

  She took a moment to shrug back into her suit jacket and tuck her feet back into her shoes, then made her way toward the stairs at the back of the kitchen. Predictably, a fourth—and hopefully final—scream serenaded her as she began her ascent toward the back of the house where her own room was. Her room, and Mrs. Puddleduck's room, too.

  Of course, Mrs. Puddleduck's name wasn't really Mrs. Puddleduck. It was something else that only sounded like Puddleduck, but Lily could never remember what it was. At any rate, Schuyler had hired the woman a few months ago—against Lily's recommendation to the contrary—to be Chloe's nanny. Even though, at fourteen, Chloe was a bit too old to have a nanny. Even though what Chloe really needed was a companion of equal measure. Like a wolverine, for example. Or that masked butcher from the "Halloween" movies. Or Hermann Goering. Someone along those lines.

  "Coming, Mrs. Puddleduck," Lily called out mildly as she topped the last stair that led to her and the nanny's quarters, hoping that would prevent another bout of screaming. Nevertheless, she hastened her stride toward the other woman's room. Which was good, because she was opening her mouth for yet another bellow just as Lily entered.

  The apartment was nearly identical to her own, painted a creamy shade of pale yellow, with ivory lace curtains covering both of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the garden behind the house. A huge, oval-shaped, hooked floral rug spanned the entirety of the room, not quite obscuring the honey-toned hardwood floor beneath. The furnishings were simple but beautiful—a full bed with an embroidered ivory-on-ivory coverlet, a dresser and bedside table, a rocking chair and armoire, all crafted of exquisite bird's-eye maple. The mid-afternoon sun spilled through the windows to cast a warm, golden light over it all, dappling the room with lacy shadows.

  Yes, Lily noted with a fond smile, not for the first time, this room at Ashling was pretty much exactly like her own. Well, except for that small slimy… thing… surrounded by a pool of clear, pungent… stuff… in the middle of the other woman's bed.

  She approached it cautiously, striving for a sympathetic smile at the quivering nanny, but there were times when Lily found it difficult to be sympathetic toward the other woman. She looked to be only in her fifties, but she dressed and acted like a centenarian. A boring, stuffy, self-defeating centenarian, at that, and not one of those eccentric, fun-loving centenarians who jumped out of airplanes and drank whiskey and called octogenarians "Sonnyboy" or something like that. Still, Lily supposed no one was perfect. And who knew what kinds of things lurked in Mrs. Puddleduck's background, after all? She might very well be the way she was today because of episodes like this very one.

  Lily turned her attention back to the bed—to the thing surrounded by stuff on the bed—and tried to identify it. Funny, it did seem familiar somehow, but she couldn't quite place where she had encountered such a thing before. She had tilted her head to one side in an effort to contemplate it from another angle when Leonard Freiberger, having evidently heard the screams, too, came crashing into the room.

  She was amazed he'd been able to pinpoint the source of the outburst from Schuyler's office two floors and a couple of hallways below. That showed real investigative talent. She'd only known to come here herself because, well, this sort of thing had happened at least once a week since Chloe Sandusky had come to live with them. Who else could have been screaming but Mrs. Puddleduck?

  The nanny du jour was always Chloe's favorite target.

  "Hello, Mr. Freiberger," Lily said as she turned to greet him, wondering if being exposed to Chloe's habits on his first day at work would prevent him from returning tomorrow. Goodness, she hoped not. She was reluctant to replace the nanny, even though she and the other woman hadn't much agreed on anything, especially where Chloe was concerned. (And there had also been that business about Mrs. Puddleduck thinking that Clarence Thomas had told the truth.) But Lily really didn't want to have to replace Mr. Freiberger. She rather liked him.

  "Miss Rigby," he replied, his even timbre of voice at odds with the ex
pression of stark horror etched on his face. "May I ask what all that screaming was about?"

  "Oh, by all means," Lily told him.

  He hesitated for a moment, waiting for her to explain, and when she didn't, he added, "Uh, then… what was all that screaming about?"

  Lily sighed. "I'm afraid Mrs. Puddleduck has been the victim of a little prank."

  "A little prank?" the nanny repeated. "A little prank? You call that… that… that thing on my bed a little prank? And it's Poddledock," she added. "I wish you would remember that."

  Her question directed Mr. Freiberger's attention to the bed, and his expression of stark horror was immediately replaced by one of vague repugnance.

  "What," he said, pointing toward the offending item, "is that?"

  With what she hoped was an encouraging smile to both of them, Lily covered the remaining length of the room in a half-dozen strides and extended her hand toward the thing on the bed. But before she could touch it, Leonard Freiberger moved in from behind her and caught her hand deftly in his.

  "Maybe you should let me," he said.

  She noted then that he looked different from the way he had appeared earlier at the front door. He'd shed his jacket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He'd also rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and she couldn't help but notice that he had some very good musculature for someone whose primary activity in life was pushing pencils. Even with number two lead, a man must have to push an awful lot of them to get muscles like that.