Henny flipped open her cell, punched a number.
“Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster.” The unfamiliar feminine voice was obviously young. The new receptionist, no doubt.
Henny raised an eyebrow. Kirk Brewster’s name was still included in the firm name. But not for long. Glen should be ashamed. Of course, everyone had been struggling with hard times. “This is Henny Brawley calling for Mr. Jamison.” She and Glen had worked together on fund-raising for the island youth center.
“May I ask the subject of your call?” The voice was chirpy.
Henny felt as if a door had slammed in her face. If Pat had answered, the call would have been put through without question if Glen was in the office and available. It would take the new receptionist time to learn the ropes. “I’m calling in regard to a recommendation for Pat Merridew.”
“How is that spelled, please?”
Henny responded politely, though she was annoyed. Pat had worked at the firm for more than twenty years. Was she already completely forgotten?
“Thank you. One moment, please.”
Henny understood that Kirk had started looking for a job on the mainland, but law firms had cut back on hiring in the face of the economic downturn. Kirk’s record was amazing. He’d been number one in his law class and made junior partner in a mainline Atlanta firm in four years, instead of the usual seven. He would likely still be on the fast track to an equity partnership except for his sister’s serious illness. Both parents were dead and he was the only family she had. Henny felt sure Kirk would eventually receive an offer, but that didn’t change the fact that his single-mom sister had leukemia and depended upon Kirk to help with her two little boys. The grim news had come only a few months after he made partner at the Atlanta law firm, but he’d immediately resigned and returned to the island. If he had to leave Broward’s Rock, his nephews would suffer.
The chirrupy voice returned. “Mr. Jamison is in conference, but Mrs. Jamison is available.”
Henny hesitated. She could call Glen at home tonight. But she’d promised Rachel she’d check this morning. Before she could answer, Cleo came on the line. “Cleo Jamison.”
Henny raised a disdainful eyebrow. Cleo dismissed niceties such as hello. Implicit in her tone was the conviction that she, Cleo, was due homage. Cleo had succeeded in conveying her sense of self-worth to the community of Broward’s Rock. Since her arrival on the island a few years ago, she’d excelled as a rising young lawyer, married the widowed senior partner, and now she dominated the island’s social scene, young, beautiful, and joyously self- confident.
Henny spoke pleasantly. “Hi, Cleo. Henny Brawley. I need a rec for Pat. She’s applied to work at Helping Hands. Of course, the job isn’t on a level with her work at the firm. She’ll be overqualified but we’ll be glad to have someone to sort and arrange the clothes and household goods.”
“Pat?” A sigh of regret. “I wish I could be helpful, but as I told Rachel this morning—”
Henny’s eyes narrowed. Rachel was humorless, didactic, pompous, and perhaps the wealthiest member of the Helping Hands board. Rachel was pleased to provide support, but only if people and proposals met with her approval. Had she called Cleo?
“—I’m afraid Pat’s become a bit unbalanced. She wasn’t the right face for the firm now. The firm wants to project an up-to-the-minute image, youthful, forward-looking. Glen explained it to her as kindly as possible—”
“Pat doesn’t need a youthful image at Helping Hands.” Henny’s tone was sharp, but she knew it was a stiletto flick at an opponent who wore emotional chain mail.
“Of course not.” Cleo sounded amused. “But Rachel agreed that it wouldn’t do to hire someone who is emotionally unstable.” Now Cleo’s voice was metallic. “Last weekend she slipped into the house and accused Glen of ruining her life. There was a dreadful scene. She refused to leave until I threatened to call the police. Of course, she’s old—”
Henny was icy. “Not quite fifty.” Cleo knew full well that Henny was a septuagenarian. Cleo was arrogantly on the sunny side of thirty.
“Oh, perhaps it’s hot flashes.” Cleo was dismissive. “In any event, you’d better check with Rachel. I gave her a ring when I heard Pat had applied to Helping Hands. I thought she should know the truth. But I suggested a charming young woman who’s working on her certification for home health. Ciao.”
Henny listened to the buzzing line, clicked off the handset. Was Cleo’s tale of Pat’s behavior true? Whether it was or not, Pat wouldn’t get the job. It was too late to try to talk to Glen.
Henny sipped coffee. She watched a majestic blue heron poised to capture a fish. The heron’s beak darted into the murky green water, lofted its prey. The great bird swallowed and the fish was gone, plucked from its summer moment in the warm water just as Pat had been ousted from her once secure job.
Annie Darling looked out at the teeming marina as she hurried toward the boardwalk that fronted the shops. She took a deep breath of the sea-scented onshore breeze. It was a perfect June day, the sky a soft blue without a trace of clouds. Herring gulls bobbed in pea-green water. Fishermen dotted the pier that jutted into the sound. Boaters hosed down decks or maneuvered their crafts, everything from sunfish to sloops to catamarans to yachts. She shaded her eyes to search the marina. She felt, as always, a quick thrill when she saw Max, blond hair glinting in the sunlight. He was on his way out into the sound to take a run in his new fiberglass powerboat. He’d excused his absence from his office on the grounds that having a new powerboat and not taking it out the first day qualified as cruel and unusual punishment. It would have been fun to join him, but the bookstore needed all hands at the ready on a sunny summer day.
In fact, she needed extra help. She and Ingrid, her loyal clerk, were working long hours. Too long, according to Max. This morning when she attempted to slip from bed an hour early, the better to take care of needed orders, he’d caught her hand and tugged her back to his side, murmuring that early birds surely deserved a playful launch.
A smile touched her lips. How could she resist Max, his blond hair tousled, his stubbled cheeks bristly, his lips seeking. So she not only wasn’t early, she was a few minutes late. She walked faster, passing his office with a smile. Jaunty letters announced: CONFIDENTIAL COMMISSIONS. Max specialized in solving problems. He always made his status clear to prospective employers. He was not a private detective. The state of South Carolina had particular and specific requirements for the licensing of private detectives. There was no law that a man couldn’t
