Danger in a Red Dress

by Christina Dodd

  Jeff snorted. “No man is that frail. Not Dad, for sure.”

  “Jeff, that’s enough,” Mr. Burkhart said. “During my visits, Miss Grey showed herself to be a nurse of upright character. She did not sleep with your father.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jeff gestured wildly at Hannah. “Look at her, sitting there with her innocent expression and a body that won’t end, and fifty thousand dollars of our money. You can’t tell me she didn’t do the old man to death.”

  A cold anger sprang from deep inside of Hannah.

  “Jeff.” Donald Jr. had himself under control again. “Shut up. We’ll fight the will. The old man was obviously insane.”

  At the insult to Mr. Dresser, Hannah’s anger grew, crawling along her nerves, encasing them in ice.

  “You heard Burkhart. You heard about the screening of Dad’s mental health. Do you really think Burkhart didn’t close all the loopholes?” Jeff gestured at Mr. Burkhart with the same vigor he’d used on Hannah. “This little slut managed to screw the old guy stupid, and now she’s laughing at us.” He turned on Hannah again. “Didn’t you? Didn’t you screw him stupid?”

  Under his insulting, denigrating assault, Hannah’s discipline shattered. “Mr. Dresser was never stupid.” She swept the family with a scornful gaze, then returned her attention to Jeff. “I took care of his . . . needs. I met his . . . requirements. I was his . . . friend . . . when he needed one. Make of that what you will.” She knew exactly what they would make of that.

  Mr. Burkhart used his fingers to cut his own throat, to tell her to shut up.

  She would not. What difference did it make if she lost the inheritance before she had it? She was in a glorious rage, slapping the smarmy Jeff down with every word, letting Donald Jr. and Cynthia know the father they’d neglected had been alive and in need of attention.

  She stood up and smiled coldly. “When you think about it, fifty thousand for my services is cheap. I kept Mr. Dresser busy so the rest of you could enjoy your last days of reckless indulgence. I hope you take benefit from your employment at Dresser Insurance. Working for your living should be an interesting experience for you all.” With a grand sense of satisfaction, she opened the door and swept from the conference room.

  “Come back here,” Jeff yelled. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!”

  She walked steadily down the corridor.

  Behind her, Jeff continued to shout.

  The rest of the family picked up the volume.

  Hannah walked on, her gaze fixed on the elevator at the end of the hall.

  Putting her hand in her pocket, she found the envelope Jeff Dresser had given her earlier. The bonus the Dresser family had given her in gratitude for her care of their deceased patriarch.

  She got into the elevator and punched the button for the first floor.

  Jeff stalked toward her, fists clenched.

  Before he could reach her, the doors closed in his face.

  She could almost hear Mr. Dresser ’s voice. The little asshole.

  She pulled the envelope out of her pocket. She broke the seal, looked at the check . . . and laughed on the edge of hysteria.

  “Really. You shouldn’t have,” she said aloud.

  The Dresser family’s gratitude came to twenty-five dollars.

  TWO

  Five months later

  In the elegant entry of the Teignmouth Country Club, Carrick Manly stopped in front of the mirror. He looked himself over and smoothed his dark hair, ruffled by the spring breeze. He was six one, broad shouldered, and dressed in an understated black suit with a crisp white shirt and dull gold tie. When a man had a background like his, when he sported distinctive green eyes, he had to seem understated. He had to look conservative. He had to be careful.

  Satisfied with his appearance, he stepped into the doorway of the elegant smoking room.

  Collinson met him before he had crossed the threshold. “Good day, Mr. Manly, you’ll want your copy of the Wall Street Journal.” Hushed, reserved, and ageless, Collinson was the perfect majordomo for the exclusive men’s club.

  “Of course.” Carrick took the proffered paper, tucked it under his arm, and assessed the posture and mood of each and every man inside. It was a skill he’d developed and honed during the slim years.

  The club looked as it had for a hundred fifty years: dark paneling, high windows, overstuffed leather chairs, newspapers scattered on the end tables. The low buzz of male conversation and the clink of glasses filled the air.

  Mathew Davis was smirking at the glowing tip of his cigar. Carrick had heard rumors of a successful insider stock deal; obviously they were true.

  Headphones on, Judge Warner Edgerly watched a DVD on his handheld, a heated flush climbing up his shiny forehead. He must be reviewing porn again.

  Jeff Dresser sat at the bar hunched over a gin and tonic. Dresser looked hangdog and irritated, and anything that made the pompous jackass unhappy must be good news.

  Carrick slid into a seat next to Harold Grindle, the nosiest old gossip in New England. “What’s the problem with Jeff Dresser?” he murmured.

  “What?” Harold shouted.

  Carrick leaned forward and turned up the volume on Harold’s hearing aid. Still quietly, he asked, “I said, what’s the problem with Jeff Dresser?”

  “Oh.” Harold lowered his voice, too. “Haven’t you heard?” With a sly grin that relished each of Jeff’s tribulations, he reported the tale of Donald Dresser Sr.’s death and the details of his will.

  When he had finished, Carrick whistled softly. “So the Dressers are working at the insurance firm?”

  “The members of the board of directors are tearing out their hair. The stock is descending with each passing day. As a preventive measure, they’ve fired a few of the most worthless progeny”—Harold’s rheumy old eyes glistened—“including Cynthia.”

  “No!”

  “She’s threatening to sue, but Burkhart assures me her claim will never stand up in court. I asked him about the scandal concerning old Donald’s private nurse. He clammed up about that, but I heard she slept with the old man to the tune of five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Carrick’s eyebrows shot up disbelievingly. “The old man must have gone senile, then, because when I knew him, he hadn’t an ounce of weakness in him.”

  Harold drew back, offended. “I only report what I’ve heard.” He turned off his hearing aid, and loudly, he huffed, “Upstart!”

  Ah, yes. The first insult of the day.

  Sauntering over to the bar, Carrick took a seat two stools down from Dresser. “Gin and tonic,” he told the bartender.

  He hated gin and tonics, but he wasn’t going to drink it, anyway. He was merely ordering up a little camaraderie.

  He placed the Wall Street Journal on the polished cherrywood bar and scanned the headlines, then turned with a well-feigned start. “I didn’t see you there, Mr. Dresser. How’s Ryan?”

  Ryan Dresser was the asshole who had made Carrick’s life hell after Nathan Manly crashed his multibillion-dollar business, walked with the money to South America or Thailand or wherever the hell he’d gone, and left Carrick and his mother destitute and humiliated.

  “Ryan? Oh, he’s fine. Twenty-six years old and absolutely good for nothing. Every one of my children is good for nothing.” Jeff Dresser was slurring his words, drunk at two o’clock in the afternoon.

  This just got better and better.

  “But Ryan’s got all that money behind him. How can he be good for nothing?”

  Dresser shot him a glance that told Carrick he wasn’t so drunk he didn’t recognize sarcasm when he heard it.

  The bartender slid the drink across to Carrick, who lifted it in a swift and distracting salute. “Here’s to the oil companies. Long may they reign.”

  “I suppose you’ve heard the story.” Dresser glanced behind him resentfully. “They’ve all heard the story, and they haven’t stopped chuckling yet.”

  Carrick wisely kept quiet.
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  “Even that damn girl laughed. Laughed right in our faces!” Dresser shoved his glass back at the bartender, who refilled and returned it.

  Carrick played dumb. “What damn girl, sir?”

  “Miss Hannah Grey, RN. Dad’s nurse.” Dresser tipped the drink down his throat. “He gave that bitch fifty thousand for a blow job.”

  “Must have been a good blow job.” Carrick spun his icy glass on the bar.

  “Wide blue eyes, hair so blond it’s platinum, an innocent face, and a body that will not quit. Yeah, I imagine it was a hell of a blow job.” Dresser smiled a nasty smile. “Burkhart claimed she was an upright character. You should have seen the look on his face when she admitted she’d done it!”

  “She admitted to a blow job? In front of the lawyer?”

  “She didn’t say a blow job. She said she and Dad were . . . friends, in just that tone of voice. Sexy, but not bright.” Dresser smirked. “The family brought suit to stop the execution of the will.”

  “How did that go?” Obviously not well, but Carrick liked making the patronizing bastard admit it.

  “The will is clean. That damn Burkhart made sure of that. But I got revenge on Hannah Grey. I filed a suit with the state of New Hampshire. Her nursing certificate is suspended pending investigation, and her placement agency dropped her.”

  An idea brewed in Carrick’s mind. “So Hannah Grey can’t work in the state of New Hampshire, and she’s living off the inheritance from your father. That won’t keep her for long.”

  “Even better, she has no other resources, and it’s been five months since she’s held a job.” The open malice in Dresser’s face made Carrick almost sorry for Miss Hannah Grey. “I may be broke, I may be working for my living, but by God, she knows now she can’t play games with me and get away with it.”

  There was nothing more to be learned from Jeff Dresser, so Carrick stood. “Give Ryan my regards, and tell him if I need insurance, I’ll definitely keep him in mind.”

  Dresser rocked back on his stool as if Carrick had struck him—which he had, in a cunning show of gamesmanship.

  Carrick took a few steps away, then turned back. “About this Hannah Grey. I imagine you see her occasionally.”

  “Occasionally.” Hostility etched Dresser’s voice. “Why?”

  “I’ll bet she’s too embarrassed to look you in the eyes.”

  “Embarrassed? Are you kidding? That little witch smiles at me and lifts her chin.”

  So Hannah Grey was Carrick’s kind of woman; she kept her eyes on the purse, and wasn’t squeamish about doing what had to be done to get it.

  “Good,” Carrick said. “Good. That’s all I needed to know.”

  THREE

  Hannah sat in the small shop, Buzz Beans, her hands wrapped around her warm cup of French roast, stared at the screen of her laptop, and moaned softly.

  Behind her, Sophia was cleaning the tables in the quiet neighborhood coffee shop. “Another rejection?” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

  “If I don’t get a job pretty soon, I’m going to have to change my name, hitchhike to New York, and become a musical star.”

  “You can’t sing or dance.” Sophia was the kid sister of Hannah’s best high school friend, and she knew all too well how Hannah sounded with a karaoke machine.

  “Stop crushing my dreams.”

  Sophia glanced toward the counter and lowered her voice. “How about a cheese pierogi? We made extras this morning and—”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” Hannah smiled at the young barista, trying to convey her appreciation while holding onto her pride.

  “Yeah, but . . . Mr. Nowak has been bitching because you’re here every morning, buy one cup of coffee without any add-ins, and use his free Internet for two hours. Then you do it again in the afternoon. You know what a grump he is when he shouts.”

  “So he’s been listening to Jeff Dresser.” Who, for all that he’d lost a lot of influence in this town, hadn’t yet been counted out as a mover and shaker.

  “Yeah.” Sophia was squirming. “But I thought if you made a purchase—”

  Hannah smiled at Sophia and said loudly, “When you’ve got a minute, Sophia, could I get a cheese pierogi and coffee?” Because she couldn’t afford the cheese pierogi, but she definitely couldn’t afford Internet hookup.

  Mr. Nowak looked up from his paper, his sharp dark eyes fixed with hostile intent on Hannah. “Sophia, you keep cleaning. I’ll do it.”

  Man, Hannah had announced she’d been one old man’s friend, and Mr. Nowak thought she could corrupt his helper. She waited patiently while he warmed the pierogi and fixed her coffee.

  The brief illusion of security Mr. Dresser’s inheritance had offered had ended abruptly with her flash of temper. She had thought she might lose the inheritance. Instead, she’d lost the possibility of holding a job.

  Five months ago, fifty thousand dollars had seemed like a fortune. Now, even with frugal living, the legal bills to fight for her nursing certificate and the lack of income had reduced her fifty thousand dollars to twenty-two thousand. And with Jeff Dresser using his influence to slow the investigation of misconduct, she was going to have to do something besides the work she knew and loved. Retail, probably, which she’d done in high school, and thoroughly hated.

  “Here,” Mr. Nowak said. “I won’t charge you for the coffee.”

  Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. . . .

  Then he smiled at her in that knowing way.

  “I insist on paying.” She pushed the cup back toward him, because she’d seen that smile before, more times in the last five months than she wanted to remember, and on more men’s faces than she could bear to think about. And she was not giving this disgusting little troll of a man sex for a cup of coffee. Or for his free Internet. Or for fifty thousand dollars, either.

  His smile disappeared. “You come here every day—”

  The door chimed as someone came in.

  Mr. Nowak’s voice swelled. “Buying your cup of coffee, using my Internet, when everyone in this town knows you are a slut.”

  Hannah stiffened in humiliation and anger.

  He continued. “Everyone in this state knows you got money from poor old Mr. Dresser by—”

  A strange man spoke beside her. “Is there a problem here?”

  Mr. Nowak pointed a finger at Hannah. “She tried to steal from me. She tried to steal a . . . a . . .”

  “I’d be very careful, Mr. Nowak,” Hannah said steadily. “Very careful.”

  His gaze shifted to Sophia, then back to Hannah, then to the stranger. Hannah could almost see him thinking of the gossip if he brought charges, and he shriveled like a three-day-old party balloon. “Go on. Take the food. Take the coffee. Get out and don’t come back. You . . . you . . .”

  “Wait.” The stranger held up his hand. “If she was stealing from you, you should have her arrested. Shoplifting is a serious crime. But you can’t just bandy that charge around. That’s defamation of character. She could sue.”

  The last person to stand up for her had been old Mr. Dresser himself. Now, in astonishment, Hannah turned to look at the stranger.

  He was a fine-looking piece of man flesh: over six foot, whipcord thin, broad shoulders, dark hair, distinctive green eyes, her age or a little older. And he dressed like a wealthy businessman, in a conservative black suit with a dull gold tie.

  “She could sue, but she wouldn’t win,” Mr. Nowak blustered.

  “She’s a beautiful young woman,” the stranger said. “Juries always sympathize with a beautiful young woman.”

  “You’re a lawyer,” Mr. Nowak said in revulsion.

  The stranger shrugged.

  Mr. Nowak started to say something ill advised, then with hard-won control changed his mind. “Sophia, come and take his order.” He disappeared into the back room.

  Sophia whipped around the counter and washed her hands, smiling brightly all the time. “What can I get you, sir?”

 
; “I’ll have a medium Earl Grey tea, hot, with a splash of milk.” He looked down at Hannah. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I learned to drink it that way when I was a kid. If you sit with me, I promise not to crook my pinkie.” And he smiled.

  Hannah stood there, awestruck by his straight white teeth, his long black lashes, the dimple in his cheek.

  “Wow,” Sophia said out loud.

  Grabbing her cup, Hannah said, “I drink coffee. Black.” She winced. Scintillating, Hannah.

  “That is so much more sensible.” He took the tea Sophia placed on the counter. “Let me pay for Miss . . . ?” He looked an inquiry at Hannah.

  “Grey. Hannah Grey.”

  “Let me pay for Miss Grey’s order, also. I don’t want the manager to come back when I’m gone and make trouble.”

  “He’s the owner,” Sophia said.

  At the same time, Hannah said, “I can pay for it.”

  “He’s the owner? All the more reason.” He smiled at Sophia, whose jaw dropped at the gorgeous sight. Then he turned to Hannah. “Miss Grey, my mother is from one of the founding families in Maine. She lives in a hundred-fifty-year-old mansion on the coast, and as far as I can tell, she’s never left the twentieth century. She would kick my rear if she ever heard I let a lady buy her own coffee. So please spare my mother—she has arthritis and simply getting around is an effort.”

  With indecent eagerness, Sophia said, “Really? Arthritis? What a coincidence. Hannah is a home-care nurse who specializes in arthritis cases. She’s the best!” She made eyes at Hannah, and used little shooing motions with her hands.

  She was right. Hannah knew she was right. An arthritis patient? In Maine? Hannah couldn’t afford to let this opportunity slip through her fingers. She looked right into the stranger ’s eyes and said, “If you should ever need help with your mother, I am the best, and I’m between cases.”

  “My mother won’t hear of a nurse, but she’s definitely getting to the point where I’m going to have to insist. . . .” He quirked an eyebrow, appealing to Hannah’s understanding.

  She felt squeamish. She didn’t lie well, not even lies of omission. Her nursing certificate had been suspended. She should tell him that. She should, but if she didn’t get a job soon . . .