Free Fair Game by Doreen Owens Malek Page B

expected.
    He had to admit, however reluctantly, that Capo was right: she treated him as if she saw a person when she looked at him and not just a blue suit. The rest of them, like Dillon, looked through Martin as if he weren’t there, except when they wanted something.
    And what was that little recital about disposing of kids? Was she referring to herself, the stepmother packing her off to St. Whosis, that place in Switzerland he’d read about in the background information? And if so, why was she discussing it with him, of all people, the cop, the bodyguard, the nobody?
    Forget it, he told himself. These people are all off the wall. They have more problems than investments, and they’ve got a lot of investments.
    But he couldn’t quite dismiss it, and smoked another cigarette before he went to sleep.
    * * * *
    Meg Drummond was on the telephone, having a little trouble with Deacon’s Formal Wear.
    “Why can’t you send the tuxedos over to the hotel by messenger?” she asked wearily.
    She listened and then said, “All your delivery trucks are out? We need the clothes for tonight.”
    She listened again and made a face. “I realize that this is a last-minute order, but the clothes are for people in Senator Fair’s party...” I should have lied and said they were for Joe, she thought in annoyance as the clerk answered with something else she didn’t want to hear.
    “I’ll send someone over to pick them up, and you can bill us,” Meg finally said. Her expression changed as she listened once again, this time in true disbelief. She interrupted the flow of words from the other end to demand, “Since when do you require prepayment? We’ve dealt with you before and—”
    She stopped, looking patiently at the ceiling as the clerk cut her off in reply.
    “Well, I don’t much care for your new policy,” Meg announced irritably. “I’ll be over myself in a few minutes to pick up the order. Does your ‘new policy’ permit the use of credit cards?”
    She got her answer and said, “How progressive of you, thank you so much,” replacing the phone receiver with a bang. I’m crossing them off my list, she thought, making a mental note. Meg couldn’t abide inefficiency in any form; she didn’t have time for it.
    She walked through the connecting door to Ashley’s suite and found the Senator’s daughter in the bedroom, staring at three gowns displayed on the hotel bed.
    “Which one for tonight?” she asked Meg as she spotted her.
    “The pearl-gray strapless. You look smashing in it.”
    Ashley made a face. “I wore that last month to Judith Clinton’s. Some of the same people will be there.”
    “How about the blue?”
    “That bib makes me look like Alice in Wonderland,” Ashley said in a tired voice.
    “You look like Alice in Wonderland anyway, sweets,” Meg said, grinning.
    “It’s not an image I’m trying to cultivate,” Ashley said flatly. “And that melon sherbet one makes me look like a tart.”
    “The color is ‘blush,’ and it does not,” Meg said.
    “Damn. I’m going to have to bring a batch of clothes from Georgetown, or else get more from Carlo,” Ashley muttered.
    “Why don’t you just go out and buy some, like a normal person?” Meg inquired.
    Ashley sighed. “Standing around all day getting pinned up like a seamstress’s dummy reminds me of Sylvia,” she said. “It’s so... self-indulgent.”
    “Ashley, you need the clothes,” Meg said practically. “You’re getting photographed every time you walk out the door.”
    “Oh, all right. Can we call that woman from Bonwit’s, and Jerry from Magnin’s? Tell them to send me some rack samples and I’ll order by phone, have them fitted here.”
    “Will do,” Meg said, extracting a small spiral notebook from her pocket.
    “And remember, full price.”
    “Right,” Meg said. “And what about the designers? Should I call anybody besides Carlo?”
    “No, no, they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Photo credits,