Free A Paris Apartment by Michelle Gable Page A

stashed from the flight. Her BlackBerry buzzed from beneath her purse.
    “Dammit,” she groused. “It’s like people want me to work or something. Hello, this is April Vogt.”
    April kicked off both shoes and plunged an arm deeper into her bag.
    “It’s me. Why do you never check Caller ID before picking up? I mean, like ever? Even once in your lifetime?”
    “Oh, Birdie, hey. Sorry. I’m in the middle of a deep investigation.” April found two squares of airline chocolate melted onto the back of a hairbrush. “What’s going on?”
    “I just sent over some files for you to review ASAP,” Birdie said. “We’re supposed to have twenty-five lots coming out of this office a day. We’re, like, way behind.”
    “Yes. Sure. I’ll read them shortly. I need to take care of a few things first. Then I’ll get right on it.”
    April peeled a piece of chocolate off her brush and popped it into her mouth, too ravenous to feel embarrassed about the state of her culinary sampling in Paris thus far.
    “I drafted up the descriptions,” Birdie said. “I think they’re in pretty good shape, if I do say so myself. But Peter needs your sign-off. Also, check numbers three, forty-six, and two-twelve. Your original notes were a little hard to decipher, and some of the descriptions don’t seem to match the time period. Your handwriting is atrocious, by the way.”
    “So they say. I’ll take a look. Thanks for putting it together. I’m sure you did an excellent job.”
    Birdie always did an excellent job. Sometimes April wondered if she should work for Birdie instead of the other way around. Of course anyone who took borderline illegible notes and forgot to eat would make a crappy assistant indeed.
    “I can always send them to Peter,” Birdie said. “If you’re too busy with the apartment.”
    “No, it’s fine. I’m happy to look them over.”
    Happy to look them over was the truth, thanks to Birdie’s always-stellar work product. Normally jet lag, lack of food, and two glasses of wine would make April unable to wax poetic about commodes. But if Birdie had done the heavy lifting, then April could easily correct the grammar and review factual details. She could change the number eight back into a nine.
    “Think you can get it to me by COB today?” Birdie asked. “New York time?”
    “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
    “Perfect. Thanks.”
    April heard much shuffling and bumping then, followed by the inevitable flurry of curse words.
    “Goddamn bastard!”
    “You okay, Birds?”
    “Jesus fuck! I stubbed my toe!”
    “You really need to be more careful,” April said with a yawn. “You make me nervous.”
    Birdie was a walking worker’s comp liability. She was forever banging knees, jamming toes, and stapling scarves to photo decks. Although, April supposed, if you barely reached five feet and moved like a hummingbird (her nickname was no coincidence), the margin for error was slim. It was easy to smash into windshields or twist yourself up in branches.
    “It’s the layout around here,” Birdie said. “It’s an accident waiting to happen.”
    “Yes. Yes, you are.”
    Unsatisfied by her purse chocolate, April wandered into the kitchen, hoping the previous occupants left something behind. A stale piece of bread, an old jar of olives—she would take anything.
    “Perhaps if you moved at a more reasonable pace,” April said and popped open the cabinet. “You wouldn’t have to worry about dry-cleaning bills, excessive bandage consumption, or the fact you look like a battered woman when you wear a tank top.”
    “It’s the price I pay for efficiency, Madame.”
    “Not sure it’s a trade-off our insurance carrier would approve,” April said. “Anything else?”
    “No.”
    “All right then, I’ll talk to you—”
    “Wait. April. Real quick.” Birdie inhaled. “So. Um. Daniel’s mom? She’s on the board of the Columbia Cancer Center?”
    “How lovely for your mother-in-law.