“Showtime,” Gail said as she closed the cover on her tablet and slipped it into her backpack. We grabbed our packs and opened our doors.
Our escort stopped and waited for us on the bottom step. He took in our outfits, work boots, jeans, and untucked shirttails with a disapproving sneer. His own suit was immaculately tailored and sported clean lines except for a slight bulge in his left armpit, the usual sign of a shoulder holster.
“You are Drexler and Weaver?” he asked. His voice didn’t quite come across as a sneer.
“Yep, that’d be us,” Gail said with a too-sweet smile.
“Mr. Montgomery is expecting you if you will follow me.” He turned and started up the steps without waiting to see if we were following.
Gail and I exchanged glances and then climbed the steps behind him.
The butler, or security guard, he hadn’t identified himself, stopped beside the ten-foot high double doors and opened the one on the right. He motioned us in and waited. Gail stepped through onto ancient gray oak flooring and I followed quickly. I moved to the side as soon as I was over the threshold and turned to watch our escort. The man closed the door behind him and started down the wide, wainscoted hallway without speaking. We followed and about halfway toward the back of the house, he stopped in front of a solid mahogany door and waited for us to catch up. He seemed impatient.
I thought Montgomery would have a more professional staff, but for all I knew this guy was just a hired gun. Do all reclusive philanthropists need security guards? Oh well, the rich are just like the rest of us except with more money. Yeah, right.
Our escort opened the door, outward. He stood to the side and we stepped through into a library straight out of an old English mansion. Shelves filled the walls from floor to the twelve-foot high ceiling. A small, wood burning, fireplace was set in the far wall. There were no windows, but there was a wet bar on the right wall and Nichols was in the process of pouring himself a drink from a crystal decanter. There were six immense armchairs in the room, two in one corner with a chess set on a marble-topped table between them. The other four armchairs were in a conversational arrangement on a rug—that probably cost more than my annual military salary—in front of the fireplace. The fireplace may have originally been wood burning, but right now, it held a forty-five-inch, LED screen that displayed a crackling fire, complete with sound. Soft white LED lights in wall sconces lit the room with a warm glow. Robbins sat in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. One of the other chairs was occupied by a woman
They turned toward the door as they heard our boots on the wood flooring.
Robbins and the woman stood as we entered. The woman’s red hair flowed to either side of her shoulders and hung low enough to frame the generous cleavage that her gray silk blouse did little to conceal. Her kelly green skirt didn’t reach her knees and her black stockings disappeared into, some not-so-practical, black high heels. She was also the spitting image of the woman I had so recently killed and dismembered.
Chapter 21 – Dinner Guests
I couldn’t help the surprise inhalation of breath between clenched teeth. Gail caught my response and her right hand moved toward her concealed Colt.
Obviously, it couldn’t be the same woman. I studied her face. She was as close in appearance as I could remember when that other woman still had a face. There must have been slight differences, I wasn’t sure what, but my impression of the other woman had been in her middle to late twenties while this woman was five to ten years older.
“Ah, Gail and Jesse, glad you’re here,” Professor Robbins said, “This is Jean Spangler, Mr. Montgomery’s personal assistant.”
Gail stopped reaching for her piece and walked forward, her right hand reaching out.
Spangler looked puzzled, but raised her own hand and stepped forward to meet Gail.
I slid sideways in the room, just onto the expensive rug, to keep Gail from getting in my line of fire. This woman was obviously related to the werewolf I’d killed and I don’t like coincidences.
Our escort stepped back into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him. I watched him out of the corner of my eye until I was sure the door was shut.
The women met. Their hands clasped. Both women froze. Almost unconsciously, my hand slid back toward my gun as the moment stretched out. What in hell was happening? They each stared into the other’s face without moving.
Nichols turned from the wet bar with a glass of iced whiskey in his hand. He noted Gail’s and Jean’s stance and asked, “What’s wrong, Jean?”
For another moment, there was no response, then as suddenly as the freeze had begun, both women dropped the handshake and each took a single step back from the other.
“Well, Gail was it?” The woman asked.
“That’s right,” Gail said. She took a couple of steps back as she spoke and I moved a little closer to her. “And you’re Jean Spangler.”
“Yes, well, you are certainly more than I expected. I’m surprised that Greg didn’t know you were coming,” Spangler said.
“Oh, but surely he knew,” Robbins said. “I set up the appointment with you this afternoon.”
“Yes, but when you said there were a couple of people that needed to see him about his new ring, you didn’t say that Gail was a relative.”
“A relative?” Nichols said. “I don’t understand.”
I didn’t understand either. Surely, Gail wasn’t related to Montgomery.
“It’s a distant relationship, but I’m sure he’ll be thrilled that you’re here,” Spangler said and she gave Gail a wide smile.
I took another step closer and touched Gail on the shoulder. She didn’t react. “Gail,” I whispered. “What’s this about?”
“Jean is right, Jesse.
