Free Christy Barritt - Squeaky Clean 07 - Mucky Streak by Christy Barritt Page B

even after I left the message.
    I pushed away the fear and anxiety that tried to grip me, that tried to occupy my thoughts. I was going to turn over a new leaf. I was going to trust that everything that happened was for my good, even when my feelings didn’t match. My pastor always said that emotions could be used for good or evil. I was going to choose “for good.”
    Holly had some kind of appointment in the morning, so she couldn’t hang with me. But she did drop me off to get a new rental car. Thankfully, the police had come and taken a report. Then the rental company had told me—after nearly an hour on the phone—to have the car towed in.
    Despite my misgivings about trying to navigate this city on my own, I had no choice. Vic Newport was available to talk. He and Edward had apparently been BFFs.
    I pulled off the Interstate. Straight ahead, I spotted a six-story building with Wimbledon Pharmaceuticals stretched across the top in bold, blue letters. I’d heard of them before. They not only made general medications like pain relievers and acid reflux aids, but they also had created some groundbreaking cancer and MS drugs.
    I’d done a little research on the company before leaving and had discovered that the y generously gave to many charities, that they’d nearly gone under eight years ago when another company beat them at distributing a new chemotherapy medication, and today they were on the Fortune 500 list. The company was started by Reginald Wimbledon and taken over by Reginald Wimbledon, Jr. He ran the company until last year when he passed away. Since then, his son Smith Wimbledon had taken over.
    I found a parking space, then hurried inside. A receptionist ushered me upstairs, walking at such a fast clip that I was still trying to catch my breath when I reached a conference room.
    The woman forced a smile and pushed the door open. “He’ll be here in a moment.”
    I paced around the room, trying to cool my nerves. There was nothing to be nervous about. I’d done this a million times before. Just ask questions. Be nosy. Do what you do best.
    Still, this felt different. I’d never been pai d to ask these questions before, which seemed to raise the stakes.
    I paced over to a marble topped coffee bar and ran my finger across it, staring at a stain there, just as the door opened.
    “Ms. St. Claire?”
    I straightened myself, a little too quickly. So much for appearing professional. “Mr. Newport. Thanks for letting me come out. I know you’re a busy man.”
    Mr. Newport wasn’t tall and wasn’t short. He had a severely receding hairline and an expensive suit.  He must like jewelry too because he had a thick gold watch, a couple of bracelets, and even a necklace.
    “Anything I can do to help Edward and his family.”
    Maybe I could earn points with this man, just like I’d earned points with Detective Morrison. “In exchange for your time, I can give you a great trick for cleaning that marble top with just some baking soda and crushed chalk.”
    He stared at me a moment and said nothing.
    So much for earning points.
    He pointed to a stiff looking chair at the table. “Have a seat.”
    I obediently sat down at a long, glossy, conference table, rationalizing that I wasn’t the corporate type. Not with the sour faces, the stiff suits, and the office politics. Two other men filed into the room.
    I froze. I hadn’t expected anyone else to be joining us.
    Mr. Newport must have noticed my confusion because he paused. “I also have Smith Wimbledon here. Mr. Wimbledon’s grandfather founded the company and today Smith serves as the CEO. He knew Edward and thought he might add something.”
    Smith nodded. He was younger than I expected. Probably in his mid-thirties, but he had a head full of hair, an easy smile, and kind eyes.
    “My father was the CEO when Edward Mercer worked here,” he explained. “Unfortunately, he had a heart attack last year and here I am now, trying to fill big shoes.”
    I