more, mind you, or I’ll have to up the rent. Told Brandy that. Now, you want a room, right I’ve got five, so you can have your pick. What is it you’re doing here in East Wappy ?”
Brandy, huh? Now, that name he had seen on one of the mailboxes. The lies were coming easier now, as Quinn was more than halfway comfortable with his cover story, and really pretty damned pleased to have been proven right. Miss Shelby Taite did live here, ludicrous as that seemed. “I’m a writer, ma’am, and I’m just here for a few weeks to take in some of the local color, maybe pound out a few chapters of my next book.”
“A writer, huh? Right.” Suddenly the woman was all business. “I don’t know nothin’ about any couple of weeks, though. Rent’s by the month for writers and musicians and such, in advance. You have references?”
Quinn grinned, at last feeling himself totally in familiar territory. “No, but I’ve got five hundred dollars in my pocket ready to hand over to you, if that counts?” He probably could have gotten a room for half that, but all his expenses were being paid, and he decided Somerton Taite would be getting off cheap at twice the price.
The manager motioned with her head for Quinn to follow her into her apartment, talking around the cigarette once more as she took a key off a rack hanging inside the door. “No pets, no loud parties, no putting your beer bottles on any of my tables without using a coaster, ‘cause that’s what they’re there for. Just act like your mama’s gonna be stopping in and checking up on you, because since she isn’t, I am. I dust, run the vacuum cleaner, and scrub the sink and bathroom once a week. If you make that too hard for me, you’re gone. Didn’t put up with it from my kids, ain’t putting up with it from anyone else. Got that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn answered, unconsciously straightening his spine. He took a quick look around the living room, a classroom-size area jammed with overstuffed velour furniture, a snowstorm of white lace doilies, and dominated by a big-screen TV currently showing a half-naked pair of lovers making out on a sandy beach that had never seen the outside of a Hollywood soundstage. He could smell ham and cabbage cooking on the stove in the unseen kitchen, and was only mildly surprised to see the long-neck beer sitting on a coaster and resting on a table in front of the couch.
“Got it,” Quinn added, stepping farther into the East Wapaneken twilight zone. “Anything else?”
“Nope. Just the five hundred.” He handed over the bills and they disappeared down the front of the muumuu, probably to be lost there forever. “And my name’s Mrs. Brichta.”
“I’m Quinn Delaney,” he offered in return. “You may call me Quinn.”
“And you can call me Mrs. Brichta. Only thing the man gave me that’s worth hanging on to. You’re in Two B, up the steps and to your left. I clean that room on Friday mornings, so’s you’d better be up and out by seven on Fridays unless you want me seeing you in your skivvies. Now let me get back to my soaps.”
“Maybe I should write a book about this place,” Quinn said to himself as he unloaded soft-sided luggage from the trunk of the Porsche, then laughed and shook his head. “Nah, who’d believe it?”
Chapter Fourteen
There were too many of them. And they just kept coming.
Shelby had been regretting the choice of four-inch heels since about two o’clock, and had begun cursing those heels in earnest by five as that old saying “run off her feet” hit home with a vengeance.
How many people lived in East Wapaneken anyway, and why did they all want to have dinner at Tony’s? Didn’t they have homes? Didn’t they have kitchens?
Didn’t Tony know the meaning of the word reservations?
She had no clean tables, three parties unconscionably lingering over dessert, and twelve people standing in line next to the cash register, making it nearly impossible for her to open the
Brandy, huh? Now, that name he had seen on one of the mailboxes. The lies were coming easier now, as Quinn was more than halfway comfortable with his cover story, and really pretty damned pleased to have been proven right. Miss Shelby Taite did live here, ludicrous as that seemed. “I’m a writer, ma’am, and I’m just here for a few weeks to take in some of the local color, maybe pound out a few chapters of my next book.”
“A writer, huh? Right.” Suddenly the woman was all business. “I don’t know nothin’ about any couple of weeks, though. Rent’s by the month for writers and musicians and such, in advance. You have references?”
Quinn grinned, at last feeling himself totally in familiar territory. “No, but I’ve got five hundred dollars in my pocket ready to hand over to you, if that counts?” He probably could have gotten a room for half that, but all his expenses were being paid, and he decided Somerton Taite would be getting off cheap at twice the price.
The manager motioned with her head for Quinn to follow her into her apartment, talking around the cigarette once more as she took a key off a rack hanging inside the door. “No pets, no loud parties, no putting your beer bottles on any of my tables without using a coaster, ‘cause that’s what they’re there for. Just act like your mama’s gonna be stopping in and checking up on you, because since she isn’t, I am. I dust, run the vacuum cleaner, and scrub the sink and bathroom once a week. If you make that too hard for me, you’re gone. Didn’t put up with it from my kids, ain’t putting up with it from anyone else. Got that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn answered, unconsciously straightening his spine. He took a quick look around the living room, a classroom-size area jammed with overstuffed velour furniture, a snowstorm of white lace doilies, and dominated by a big-screen TV currently showing a half-naked pair of lovers making out on a sandy beach that had never seen the outside of a Hollywood soundstage. He could smell ham and cabbage cooking on the stove in the unseen kitchen, and was only mildly surprised to see the long-neck beer sitting on a coaster and resting on a table in front of the couch.
“Got it,” Quinn added, stepping farther into the East Wapaneken twilight zone. “Anything else?”
“Nope. Just the five hundred.” He handed over the bills and they disappeared down the front of the muumuu, probably to be lost there forever. “And my name’s Mrs. Brichta.”
“I’m Quinn Delaney,” he offered in return. “You may call me Quinn.”
“And you can call me Mrs. Brichta. Only thing the man gave me that’s worth hanging on to. You’re in Two B, up the steps and to your left. I clean that room on Friday mornings, so’s you’d better be up and out by seven on Fridays unless you want me seeing you in your skivvies. Now let me get back to my soaps.”
“Maybe I should write a book about this place,” Quinn said to himself as he unloaded soft-sided luggage from the trunk of the Porsche, then laughed and shook his head. “Nah, who’d believe it?”
Chapter Fourteen
There were too many of them. And they just kept coming.
Shelby had been regretting the choice of four-inch heels since about two o’clock, and had begun cursing those heels in earnest by five as that old saying “run off her feet” hit home with a vengeance.
How many people lived in East Wapaneken anyway, and why did they all want to have dinner at Tony’s? Didn’t they have homes? Didn’t they have kitchens?
Didn’t Tony know the meaning of the word reservations?
She had no clean tables, three parties unconscionably lingering over dessert, and twelve people standing in line next to the cash register, making it nearly impossible for her to open the
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