Free Retribution by Jeanne C. Stein Page A

woman has not yet greeted me and I realize she’s talking on the phone. She rings off and says, “Sorry about that. The phones have been crazy since that newspaper article appeared yesterday. Are you here to place an order?”
    She pulls a clipboard from a stack on her desk and holds it out to me. “We’ve had trouble with the website. So many hits, customers have not been able to access order forms. I’ve been telling them to come in and do it in person if they’re in the San Diego area. They’ll get the product much faster that way.”
    “Product?”
    “Eternal Youth.” The smile dims a little when she sees I’m not reaching for the clipboard. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
    Eternal Youth? Why does that ring a bell? I let the name filter through the cogs. It comes to me in a lightning bolt of recognition.
    Yesterday’s paper.
    Gloria and her new gig.
    And something else.
    The woman with Gloria. The president of the company.
    The redhead, Simone Tremaine.
    One and the same. Belinda Burke.
    The woman behind the desk has returned the clipboard to its stack as she takes another phone call. I’m processing possibilities. I could go to Gloria and see what she knows about Simone Tremaine. Good old Gloria, once again she’s gotten involved with a less than scrupulous business partner.
    Last resort. I’d rather not see Gloria again—ever. She’d likely use any opening to weasel her way back to David.
    The second possibility is to find out what I can from the receptionist. I doubt she’s going to give me Simone’s address or home telephone number no matter how sweetly I ask.
    That leaves two options. Go back to the cottage and do an Internet search. Most likely a waste of time since Simone Tremaine is probably unlisted.
    Or come back tonight and go through Belinda’s files. Behind the reception area is a door with a glass window. I mosey over and look in. There’s a long hall with doors opening on both sides—offices, no doubt—and a door in the back. Through the one on the end is something that looks like the landing to a flight of stairs.
    “Can I help you with something?”
    The enthusiasm has gone out of the receptionist’s voice.
    I turn to her. “I’m not here to place an order,” I say, stepping back to the desk. “But I am interested in the company. What can you tell me about Simone Tremaine?”
    The silky smooth smile of the saleswoman returns. “She’s wonderful. She discovered the formula for Eternal Youth herself. Are you from the press? I have a press kit I can give you.”
    This time I take the offering. It’s slick and glossy and the first page is a headshot of Simone. “Where is she from, do you know?”
    “New York. She was in advertising there. Which is why she’s so good with the media. They love her.”
    Yeah. That and the fact that she can hex people to believe anything she wants.
    I flip the twenty or so pages contained in the kit. Every one has a photo of Simone along with before and after shots of middle-aged women transformed from drab to gorgeous. No cream could possibly—
    The receptionist interrupts my train of thought with a laugh. “I can tell from your expression you’re skeptical of those results. Most women are.” She reaches for something at her feet and comes up with a handbag. She fishes out a wallet and flips to a driver’s license.
    “How old do you think I am?” she asks.
    “I’m not good at that game,” I say. Being a vampire puts you at a disadvantage.
    She holds out the picture so I can read her date of birth.
    I look from the license to the woman and back again. “Is this a joke?”
    She laughs. “Nope. I’m an Eternal Youth customer myself. And I’m fifty-two years old.”
    I react the way she expects—with shocked appreciation at the transformation. I don’t bother to tell her that she’s probably under some kind of spell, that the woman she has so much admiration for is a cold-blooded killer who has to be working an angle that