Free Come Hell or Highball by Maia Chance Page A

now that Alfie’s gone, I haven’t got a fellow to consult about, um, business matters.” That was a laugh; Alfie had had the business sense of a chickpea. “And you’ve got such a marvelous head for such things—you’re so successful, so important .”
    Horace puffed up. “What seems to be of concern?”
    â€œNot here. In your study, perhaps, before dinner?”
    â€œOf course, my dear.”
    Olive came striding around the corner of the house. “ There you two are.” She thwacked the strings of a tennis racket against her palm. “We’re playing another match! Chop-chop, Lola. Practice makes perfect!”
    *   *   *
    â€œIf you ask me,” I said to Berta after luncheon, “this trip to the golf links is questionable. I mean, all those reporters have been held off at the gates till now, but the instant we go out to the country club, they’ll swarm.” I sat down on an ottoman in my bedroom and yanked on my borrowed golf socks.
    â€œIf you do not mind me saying so, Mrs. Woodby, it is those socks that are questionable,” Berta said. She was cocooned in an armchair again. She took a sip of tea. “Sadly, there are certain people who should avoid argyle socks.”
    I tied my too-big, duotone saddle oxfords. “Listen. I don’t know what you had for lunch—”
    â€œOh, merely a simple roast beef sandwich and potato salad. Nothing special.”
    â€œ What? Roast beef?” My belly rumbled. Luncheon in the dining room had been like feeding time at the county fair: crunchy and green. “Well, you may be devouring medieval feasts with the staff, but the rest of us are on prison rations. So no snide comments, thanks awfully.”
    â€œYou do not expect me to mind your dog this afternoon, do you?”
    Cedric slept on the armchair next to Berta’s, but his puffy back was turned against her.
    â€œI asked Hibbers to come up and fetch him,” I said. “He should be here any minute.”
    I went over to the mirrored wardrobe and studied my reflection. The on-loan white sports blouse and green sweater vest were all right—a bit stretched out in the paunch region. Likewise, the pleated golf skirt had a passable, though dumpy, fit. But the socks . They were a brash, green-and-brown argyle pattern that did nothing whatsoever for my ankle concern. “I look like an escapee from clown college. Not like somebody who’s going to pull off a heist.”
    Berta picked up her book. “I was wondering when you were going to get round to that.”
    â€œWe agreed to go into this thing fifty–fifty, if I remember correctly, but I’m starting to forget exactly what you’re doing, besides wolfing down roast beef sandwiches and perusing novels. Oh yes, and baking treats to stuff into the mouths of Olive’s children.”
    â€œI am tending to the back end of things.”
    â€œWhat back end?”
    â€œI am conducting research.” She tilted her book so I could see its cover. Another one of my Frank B. Jones, Jr., dime novels: Shakedown in Shanghai .
    â€œI haven’t gotten to read that one yet!”
    â€œI shall tell you how it ends. Thad Parker is a most resourceful gumshoe. When he puts the gun to the smuggler’s temple and—”
    I poked my fingers in my ears. “Stop!”
    A rap sounded on the door. I grabbed Cedric and yanked the door open.
    Ralph Oliver stood in the doorway in his baggy servant’s livery. “The butler sent me up to get the pooch.” He looked me up and down, and lifted his eyebrows.
    â€œDon’t you dare comment,” I said. I kissed Cedric, shoved him into Ralph’s arms, and slammed the door.
    â€œOh, dear me,” Berta murmured. “We are hungry, aren’t we?”
    *   *   *
    As I’d predicted, as soon as our golfing party motored out of the Dune House gates, two