Free Spellbinder by Collin Wilcox Page A

entered the office first. Pointedly, Holloway frowned at the shirt and flared slacks. Dressed so casually, Elton thought he was asserting his in-the-family prerogative. But, instead, he was revealing—once again—his insensitivity to accepted procedures within the organization.
    Walking close behind, Mitchell appeared, his stolid, broad-shouldered, blue-suited presence a reassuring contrast. At age fifty, Mitchell was totally dedicated, totally loyal. Like his squared-off, heavily muscled body, Mitchell’s face was sternly sculpted of heavy, durable material. Elton’s face was also broad and heavy. But the material was puffy and flaccid, without strength or substance.
    Yet, because his name was Holloway, Elton was entitled to sit in one of the two comfortable leather armchairs placed directly in front of the desk, for principals. Mitchell, as expected, pulled a smaller straightback chair up to the desk—and waited, patiently, for recognition.
    Immediately, Holloway turned to Mitchell.
    “What is it, Lloyd?”
    Mitchell cast a brief, regretful glance at Elton and Flournoy before he turned earnestly in his chair, facing Holloway directly.
    “It’s Mrs. Holloway,” he said quietly. “She’s been in an accident.”
    Reacting involuntarily, Flournoy snapped, “What kind of an accident?”
    Still with his eyes fixed implacably on Holloway, Mitchell said, “It’s a traffic accident.”
    Holloway felt himself sag suddenly back in his chair. For years, she’d been with him. Drunk or sober, in sickness or in health, she’d never missed a performance. The Hour was a family affair—Flournoy’s words. Without the family—without Katherine and Elton and Carrie and the three much-publicized grandkids, all of them a team, The Hour would lose credibility, lose impact.
    The queen mother, a columnist had once called Katherine. Always serene. Always smiling. She’d always been perfect for the part.
    Weak, vulnerable Katherine—a helpless drunk. For a bottle a day, she served faithfully and well.
    “Is she—” Elton licked at full, slack lips. “Is she hurt?” Suddenly Elton’s eyes shone, as if he might cry.
    “No,” Mitchell answered steadily, still speaking to Holloway. “No, she’s not hurt. What happened, you see—well, it was a terrible coincidence, I guess you’d say. Or, more like it, several coincidences. There were just two people in the house, when there should’ve been three, besides Mrs. Holloway. Calder was taking the Cadillac for gas, and he didn’t tell Susan. He didn’t expect to be gone long—and he wasn’t. But then Miss Fletcher had a dental appointment, downtown. She told Susan she was going. And, before she left, Miss Fletcher looked in on Mrs. Holloway, and saw she was sleeping. She—Miss Fletcher—didn’t plan to be gone longer than an hour. But then, Susan decided to go to the store for some spices, or something. She thought Calder was in the garage, working. She thought she saw him through the garage window, she claims. She also claims that she tried to reach him on the intercom, and couldn’t—which made her think something was wrong with the intercom. So she decided to run out to the store. She wasn’t gone for more than a few minutes.
    “But, anyhow—” Mitchell sighed heavily. “Anyhow, Mrs. Holloway apparently got out of bed. She, ah—” Mitchell shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Resting on either knee, his hands clenched as he said, “She apparently didn’t have any more, ah, gin left. And Miss Fletcher doesn’t give her another bottle until five o’clock, as I understand it—just before dinner. And all this happened just a little after two. So, anyhow—” Mitchell cleared his throat, and lifted his bulldog chin, as if to accept a blow. “Anyhow, Mrs. Holloway apparently got the keys to the silver Mercedes from the board in the garage, and she got in the car, and she drove down to the shopping center, off Montecito, where there’s a liquor store. And—”