Free Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) by J. A. Menzies Page A

said vaguely, “anywhere.”
    “It’s heavy.”
    “Oh. Maybe—?” She glanced around the room wildly and then gestured to the bed beside her. “Here. On this bed.”
    He lifted the suitcase onto the bed and made sure the right side was up.
    He was going out the door when she called, “Wait! Shouldn’t I pay you or something?”
    “Do I look like the butler?” he replied. “I’m not.”
    Her face flamed. “Oh. I guess I’m not very—very—”
    “George Brodie is my uncle.”
    “Oh.”
    “Well, see you at supper.”
    “Yes. Yes, I guess so.”
    “I’ll be eating it, not serving it.”
    He shut the door and she moved over to stare at Jillian’s suitcase. After a moment, she opened it. It was full of the clothes Jillian had thrown at her. A couple of dinner dresses. A nightgown and matching robe. Some jewelry. Underwear. Bathing suit. Two sundresses. A skirt and blouse. Even shoes.
    She pulled the garments out and hung them in her closet. She couldn’t keep from opening the other side of the closet. Clothes were hung neatly. One navy suit, two skirts, a few blouses, and three dresses, one green and two floral patterns. Nice, but ordinary. Not glamorous or sexy, like the things Jillian wore. Not expensive-looking, either.
    Shauna went back to the bed. At the bottom of the suitcase were her own things. Jillian had said to leave them at the apartment, but for some reason she had brought them. She took out what she thought she might need. Toothbrush. Other toiletries. A few odds and ends. Her book. Then she put the suitcase, her own clothes still in it, at the back of the closet.
    She sat down on a rose-colored chair and stared at the clothes in her closet. Maybe wearing them would get her through the weekend. Maybe she would be able to fool people into thinking she belonged here. Except that man. The one she’d thought was a servant. He knew she didn’t belong.
    From now on, she would copy Jillian. Her sister always knew how to act. But then, her roommate was Mrs. Brodie’s cousin. So maybe she should copy her. Do what she did. It was all so difficult.
    Shauna picked up the book Peter had let her bring. She’d worry about clothes in a little while.

    Instead of playing billiards, as Ellen had suggested, Kendall had recommended a tour of the rose garden, to which Lorry readily agreed. Nick wandered along behind them.
    The rose garden consisted of walls of wild rose bushes dotted with arches and trellises covered with climbing roses, several fountains with small cherubs gamboling, white wrought-iron love-seats for sitting, and a myriad of different roses, from floribundi to hybrid tea and miniatures to grandifloras, all of them beautifully cared for and many of them spectacular.
    “However do your parents look after all this, Kendall?” Lorry asked in amazement.
    Kendall laughed. “If you think either of them has a green thumb, forget it. As far as Dad’s concerned, if looking after the place was up to him, this would be a slab of concrete, possibly painted green. I guess Mom likes it, because she raved about it when they bought the house. But my personal opinion is that she likes it because it’s a status symbol. You know, ‘Won’t you come to tea in my rose garden, dear?’
    “Anyway, there are two full-time gardeners looking after the grounds. Plus a part-timer to do the heavy work. And if you like this garden, wait until you see the Japanese one.”
    Lorry shook her head, then moved on, exclaiming about first one and then another rose.
    Kendall waited for Nick. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked quietly. “Or are you coming to your senses?”
    It was a moment before Nick replied. “No,” he said slowly. “I remembered something and started thinking about it. Sorry.”
    “No problem. It’s only that when you’re around attractive women you aren’t usually quiet. Unless of course you got to thinking she might prefer the strong, silent type.”
    Nick half-grinned, looking rueful. “Am I