Free Tender Death by Annette Meyers Page A

hollow, but determinedly cheerful.
    “Hi there, my friend,” Wetzon said brightly.
    “Oh, Leslie dear. I’m so glad to hear your voice. I’m so sorry about yesterday ... involving you ...”
    “I don’t want to hear any apologies from you, madam,” Wetzon said with mock severity. “I’m glad I was there with you.”
    “It was terrible, Leslie. Poor Peepsie. I know she was frightened and confused by her illness, but to do something like that—”
    “Hazel, remember, she was not herself. But right now I want to know about you. When are they letting you out?”
    “It couldn’t be too soon, Leslie. I really hate hospitals. Your nice friend Sergeant Silvestri is coming back this afternoon to take me home. That was so dear of you.”
    “Silvestri? Oh yes, of course.” What was Silvestri up to? “When did he call you?”
    “He didn’t. He came over to see me first thing this morning.”
    “God, Hazel, you must have thought he was a bum. He looked awful.”
    “Now, Leslie, after all this time you should know that doesn’t faze me. I liked him. And I see why you like him,” she added.
    Wetzon felt herself blush. “What time is he coming back?” she asked, flustered.
    “Around three. Don’t worry about me, dear. I’m very sad, but I’m fine. I have to make some arrangements for Peepsie ... they still haven’t been able to locate Marion.”
    “Oh, Hazel, do you have to? Isn’t there anyone else?”
    “There’s only a lawyer, who really didn’t know her. Besides, I want to.”
    “Okay, I have an interview around four, if it’s not canceled. The weather is horrendous, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m planning to come up and look in on you before I go home.”
    Wetzon felt the angry glare of Smith’s eyes on her as she hung up the phone.
    “Wetzon,” Smith said wrathfully, “if you are late for my party because of that old biddy, I’ll murder you.”

12.
    “I THINK HE listens at our door,” Smith said.
    “Oh, Smith, you’re always so suspicious,” Wetzon said.
    “I think he goes through our private business papers when we’re not here.”
    “Well then, if you do, and you’re worried, let’s put everything under lock and key.”
    “Fahnley went belly up,” Harold said, coming right into their inner sanctum. They had warned him repeatedly that he was to knock first because he had a habit of barging in boisterously and interrupting business calls or private discussions.
    They were eating their lunch, leaning back in their chairs. Wetzon had her boots off and her stockinged, and socked, feet were up on her desk, as she alternately flexed and pointed her toes. Her fingers were yellow with egg salad, which she was in the process of licking off.
    She had opened the blinds covering the French doors, and the great white expanse of their backyard and garden, clumpy with snow, made a postcard view. The snow fell without letup.
    “Fahnley went belly up?” Harold loved to use Wall Street slang. “Are you sure they’re not merging with another firm? Weren’t they bought by that Canadian firm, Crossman Peck?”
    “Well yes ... but they’re closing the office entirely in two weeks. Crossman is bringing in its own people.”
    “Anyone there worth working on?” Smith asked. She bent to pull off her high boots. “If I remember correctly, the average age of their brokers is a hundred and five.”
    Wetzon laughed. “Not far from wrong. I sort of recall talking to a sweet old man once. He said he didn’t think he was a likely candidate, but I could call him anytime.”
    “I’ll get the list.” Harold spun around eagerly and left them.
    “I wonder if I should order another case of wine,” Smith mused. “People drink much more in this kind of weather. Wetzon, what do you think?”
    “I think I should be checking the list of Fahnley brokers.” She didn’t move her feet from her desk. “Is Hank Brownell still the manager?”
    “Oh yes, Hank Brownell,” Smith intoned, doing her W.