Snagged (14 page)

Here he was hanging, waiting for a callback from the queen of the cotton crotch. Three times today the secretary had told him, “Sorry, sir, but she’s in a meeting.” Yeah, and I’m the Tooth Fairy, he thought.

I didn’t have to go to Calla-Lily with the Birdie Panty Hose. I could just as easily have hopped a plane to North Carolina, where so many of the other panty-hose companies are located, and let one of them in on the big secret. He’d worked back there years ago and could have gotten in to see the big shots. If they had seen it, felt it, worn it, they would have known it was good. You can’t believe what you read in a letter, especially from some dodo like Richie.

The other day over at Calla-Lily Ruth had told him that the tests were all positive, but they still weren’t sure. For God’s sake, the panty-hose convention is going on right now. Was she going to try and stiff him out of his big fee? She’d better not.

Barney walked into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. This is all thanks to my nephew Danny, he thought. Danny had volunteered to get him in to see Ruth when Barney had told him, in deepest confidence, about the panty hose. It had all been so easy, it was almost surprising.

But Danny was doing the yard work for her at Casa Panty Hose. He dealt directly with Ruth. She was just getting rid of another husband. Maybe Danny had talked to her today and knew what was going on.

I’ll call him, Barney thought. He shut the refrigerator door, picked up the phone and dialed his nephew’s number. Danny’s machine picked up. 44Hi, this is Danny. I’m not home right now but if you leave your name and number . . .” It figures, Barney thought. What twenty-five-year-old kid is going to be home on a Friday night? Especially a good-looking kid like Danny. “Danny, this is Uncle Barney. Give me a call, would you? It’s important.”

Barney hung up the phone. I’ll probably hear back from him in another three days, he thought.

Now what am I going to do about dinner? I’ll light a cigar first, that’s what I’ll do.

Barney went back to his cozy little den and sat down in his favorite place, a recliner chair that went back just far enough so that he could comfortably doze off watching television without waking up with a stiff neck. He opened the cigar box he had situated within arm’s reach of this perch and pulled out a brand-new White Owl, sniffing it appreciatively. This would relax him. Alone and free with his cigar, and no one around to chase him outside to smoke it, like his ex-wife used to do. Of course she never minded the smell of cigar smoke when they were dating, but once they got married, boom, that was it. No cigar smoking in the house. He’d had about all he was going to take of that. This little room stank of cigar smoke, and he loved every whiff.

Barney held the lighter he had found on the beach under his cigar and watched it flicker as he inhaled. The whole ritual had a religious feel to it. When the cigar was finally lit, he pushed back in his seat, stretching out his legs on the footrest attached to his La-Z-Boy, which obediently appeared and disappeared at Barney’s will. Whoever said a man’s home was his castle was no idiot, Barney thought.

As he puffed, he listened to the sounds of the night in his backyard. The insects, an occasional plane flying by, the rustle of the breeze.

I could use the money, he thought. Another $45,000 if those panty hose are the real thing. And it looks like they are.

I’ll enjoy my cigar for a little while, I’ll make myself some dinner, and I’ll wait for my callback. If I don’t get it, he thought, I’ll just have to figure out how to handle that Ruth Craddock.

J
UDD GREEN SAT at a table in one of the dining rooms of the Watergreen Hotel. The group he’d been watching had just settled at a large table nearby. He’d made sure his table was close enough to theirs for good viewing and eavesdropping.

Regan Reilly, the girl who was Richie Blossom’s shadow, was making an announcement. He strained to listen.

“Good news, Richie,” Regan said as the waiter ceremoniously fluffed her napkin and placed it on her lap. She nodded her thanks as she continued. “I just talked to my friend Nadine. She bumped into someone today at a nail salon who was wearing what sounds like your Birdie Panty Hose. She says they’re great. Her son-in-law is an engineer for a panty hose company that might be interested in buying them. He’s in charge of testing them.”

“All right, Richie,” Ed Durkin cheered. “We’ll have a double celebration this weekend.”

Richie jumped up. “What company does this guy work for? How did he get my panty hose?”

“Richie, you have given a lot of pairs away,” Regan said.

“But just to my friends,” Richie told her.

“You do have patent protection, don’t you?” Regan asked, alarmed.

“Oh, sure.”

“Then you don’t have to worry. I’m going to see Nadine later. I’ll find out what she knows, if anything, about the company testing it.”

“Oh, God, I don’t believe it!” Richie said exuberantly. He held up his water glass. “I propose a toast to Birdie’s legs and Birdie’s legacy.”

Regan felt a sudden worry. “Richie,” she warned, “we better not count our chickens before they’re hatched. This is a good sign, but until you’ve received and accepted an offer, anything can go wrong.”

“Regan, you’re a worrywart. If this company doesn’t come through, another one will.” Richie’s smile faded. A concerned frown creased his forehead. “Of course if they don’t come through this weekend, it’ll be too late for the Fourth Quarter.”

“Don’t think about that, Richie,” Nora said soothingly. “We’re going to give the best cocktail party this place has ever seen. We’ll end up with a bidding war.” She held out her leg and gave it a quick swing. “I love your panty hose.”

Maura’s mother, Bridget, agreed. “I love them too. I’m wearing them now. And Richie gave me a pair that perfectly matches my mother-of-the bride dress.”

“Is that the same dress you were going to wear to Maura’s wedding two years ago?” Regan asked sweetly.

“No. She put it in long-term storage for your mother, Regan,” Maura said.

“Touche,” Regan grinned.

“Seriously, Richie,” Nora said, “they are lovely. If I owned a hosiery company, I wouldn’t want to be competing in the marketplace with the Birdie Panty Hose. These are so good they could easily put everyone else out of business. If some company is testing them and realizes how good they are, and knows you’re going to be showing them off tomorrow, you might get an offer before the fashion show.”

“Provided it’s Richie’s panty hose they’re testing,” Luke warned.

“Of course,” Nora agreed.

“At least we don’t have to worry about
our
business, right, Luke?” Ed asked. “The only things you can be sure of in this world are—”

“Death and taxes,” the whole group said aloud, having heard this proverb from Ed at least a hundred times before.

Maura and Regan exchanged looks before Maura turned to John. “Now you know why my brother’s an accountant.”

They ordered drinks and while they were sipping, the captain appeared to announce the specials.

“My favorite for tonight,” he began as he kissed his fingers, “is“—he kissed them again—“frogs’ legs!”

“That’s a sign from Birdie,” Richie announced, beaming.

A few tables away the solitary diner, Judd Green, ordered his dinner mechanically. From the sounds of it, things were coming to a head sooner than they had expected. There wasn’t much time left.

When the conversation at the large table turned to talk about a wedding, he no longer paid close attention.

Regan Reilly was going to visit a friend tonight. It sounded as though she or someone else would drop Richie Blossom off at the Fourth Quarter. He’d tipped the valet to leave his car right out on the street in front of the hotel. He had to be ready to move as soon as he saw which car Richie Blossom got into.

Hurriedly he picked at his dinner and ordered coffee. It might be a long night.

When the coffee came, he asked for his check.

“Certainly,” the waiter said cheerfully as he poured the steaming brew into his cup and was bumped from behind by a busboy. A few drops of coffee spattered onto Green’s scraped hand. He yanked his hand back, cursing.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Evans,” the waiter stammered.

With difficulty Green calmed himself. The waiter had raised his voice and he sensed other diners were glancing at them. He did not want to attract attention.

“That hand looks nasty,” the waiter continued. “That’s some scrape you’ve got there.”

“It’s all right,” he said testily. “Just get me my check, please.”

“How about a drink on the house?” The waiter was determined to make amends.

For the third time Judd Green, aka Lowell Evans, requested his check.

“Right away, right away.” The waiter hurried off.

When Judd Green finally signed his check, he noticed that Richie Blossom and his group were ordering dessert. He was outside waiting in his car when they emerged half an hour later.

A
MILD BURP escaped from Ethel’s lips as she folded up her napkin. That was mighty good, she thought. Nibbling on a bread crumb that had escaped previous detection, she surveyed the table that room service had wheeled in with her dinner. A single rose in a crystal vase was surrounded by the remains of shrimp cocktail, steak au poivre, pommes frites, and zucchini squash. Her salad plate contained microscopic traces of arugula and endive. A half bottle of wine had been emptied and the tricolor sherbet was a memory. Ethel made one final attempt to shake more liquid from the coffee pot and was rewarded with a few precious drops.

Maybe Ruth is eating rubber chicken, she gloated, but not me. If I have to stay and mind the store, then the store has to buy me dinner. Ruth knew I had to eat but, sorry, boss, McDonald’s doesn’t deliver.

Ethel stood up. No use flaunting it. I better get this table out of here before Ruth figures out what I ordered. And I’ll open the window so she doesn’t smell the steak.

Ethel glanced at her watch. They should be on the banquet speeches by now, she thought happily, knowing how much Ruth hated them. Ethel hoped the president of the National Panty-Hose Association dragged out that same old speech about the history of limb coverings. That was a real snore. She giggled to herself. Is it because I’m getting older that I’m having these nasty thoughts and feel free to enjoy them? Is it that all these torturous years of working for Ruth have finally hit me? Or, Ethel thought naughtily, could it be this delicious bottle of expensive wine?

As she opened the window, the phone began to ring. “Cominggg,” she sang.

“Hello. Calla-Lily.”

A male voice spoke from what sounded like a black hole. “This is the search party for Preston Landers. Is Ruth Craddock there?”

“No, this is Ethel.”

“Oh, hi, Ethel.”

“Well, how’s it going?” she asked.

“We’ve got good news and bad news.”

Ethel sat on the couch, wishing it had all been bad news. “Well, what’s the bad news?”

“Most people want to hear the good news first.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Okay. The good news is that we’re closing in on him. He’s still in Colorado somewhere. His team picked up supplies at the outpost we’re at now just a few hours ago. The bad news is we’ve got to call off the search until the crack of dawn.”

“It all sounds so exciting,” Ethel remarked.

“You betcha. Pass the word along that we intend to get him back there in time for Ms. Craddock’s important meeting.”

“The meeting starts at seven A.M. tomorrow morning.”

“I didn’t say he’d be on time. But we’ll get him there.”

“I’ll let her know. Good luck.” He should be wishing me good luck, Ethel thought.

“You betcha. Have a good night now.” The line was disconnected.

“Over and out,” Ethel said as she hung up the phone. After a moment she picked it up again and dialed room service. “Could you please come and collect my dinner cart as soon as possible? . . . Yes, everything was more than satisfactory. I can’t wait to order breakfast. . . no, I’m just kidding, I’m not staying here . . . thank you.”

Ethel suddenly jumped up. I never called that Freize guy. She hurried over to the desk where she had jotted down his number. Quickly she dialed. He answered almost immediately.

“Mr. Freize, this is Ruth Craddock’s secretary, Ethel . . . Yes, I know it’s taken a while to get back to you, but Ms. Craddock asked me to call you and tell you that you can come by tomorrow morning. That’s when we’ll finally know if the panty hose will be purchased. If so, we’ll give you the check.”

At the other end of the phone, Barney sighed. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think she was going to pay me.”

“Ohhh,” Ethel clucked, “she’s been rather preoccupied.”

The doorbell to the suite rang. “Hold on, Mr. Freize.”

Ethel opened the door to the smiling room-service attendant, who hurried in and efficiently disassembled the sides of the table. “Looks as if you enjoyed your meal, ma’am.”

“No use feeding the garbage can,” Ethel replied.

“That’s certainly right. Now, if you’d like anything else, just give us a call. We’re open twenty-four hours.’’

“I need my job.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. Good night.”

“Good night, now.” He opened the door and Ethel watched the last vestiges of her dinner disappear around the corner.

“Mr. Freize . . .”

“I’m here.”

The phone in the bedroom where Ruth was staying began to ring. Oh, dear, Ethel thought. That might be the search party calling back on the other line because this one is busy. “Mr. Freize, could you please hold on?”

“Why not?”

’Thank you.” Ethel hurried into Ruth’s bedroom, where the phone was insistently ringing. She dived for it before voice mail picked it up. “Hello,” she gasped.

“Ruthy Wuthy,” a young male voice cooed, “you sound sooo tiiii-ruddd.”

Ethel sat up on the bed. “This isn’t Ruthy—ahh—I mean Ruth. This is Ethel. Who may I ask is calling?”

The caller hung up so fast, Ethel blinked. Well, Ethel thought wickedly, what shall I tell Ruthy Wuthy when she asks if there were any calls? She shrugged and hurried back to Barney.