cut glass door with more facets than the British Crown Jewels. Zee lifted the gold knocker that was shaped like a fleur-de-lis and let it clang down and proclaim their very official presence.
Claire was surprised when a butler opened the door, but then again, who else would open a sports godâs portal? More surprising, the elegant servant wore a black tailcoat, white starched shirt with ruffles down the front, and a black bow tie. White haired and dignified, he looked to be in his mid to late sixties. But he also looked physically fit and able to repel hysterical sports fans and tittering women trying to get to his boss. His skin was abnormally pale, as if heâd never been out in the sun one minute or was a vampire. Claire stared at him and felt like an extra in Gone with the Wind .
âMay I help you?â Said butlerâs accent was not Southern, not even a little bit. Oh, no, he was oh-so, ooh-la-la French.
âWeâre here to see Jack Holliday on police business.â Claire and Zee presented their badges and stated names and titles, and Mr. Supercilious Servant examined them for a whole lot longer than he needed to. Something about the manâs staid manner gave Claire pause. He wasnât exactly creepy, but he gave her the willies. Why, she couldnât quite fathom. But she did not like him, not at all.
âYes, madam and sir. Mr. Holliday is expecting you. Heâs in the drawing room.â
Yeah, she bet he was. Probably with Scarlett OâHara and Melanie Wilkes and that sissy guy named Ashley that they both had the hots for. Rhett Butler was more Claireâs cup of tea, probably because he was manly like Black. Scarlett mustâve been blind or had a thing for weaklings with wavy blond hair.
The butler preceded them with his über-formality, and they followed with their usual not-impressed-by-you-buster posture. She did feel a bit irked, if only because he seemed so uppity and scornful. They strolled through a beautiful foyer, which contained the expected curved and highly polished staircase entwined with more fresh greenery that smelled heavenly and a ten-foot-high, expensively decorated Christmas tree that would impress Black to no end. They passed under a glittering chandelier that looked as if it had been filched out of a medieval cathedral or the White House. Frenchie walked with the brisk step of a much younger man, and then stopped and slid open a pair of well-oiled, white double pocket doors. They were announced, not by name but as the police officers the gentleman had been expecting. Okay, she guessed that pretty much summed them up.
Frenchie disappeared, and they stood in the doorway. The parlor did indeed look like a room where Jack Hollidayâs purported octogenarian granny would serve tea to her hoop-skirted old cronies, all right. Claire sure couldnât picture Holliday sitting on those little gold and red velvet chairs with knotted fringe and crocheted doilies. Now that would be a big bull in an antique china shop. But he was doing just that, and he did look like the aforementioned bull. He sat on a hump-backed, gold and white striped brocade sofa in front of a pink veined white marble fireplace. The mantel was carved with beaucoup angels and cherubs playing harps and floating on clouds. The logs in the hearth were crackling and snapping up a storm, despite the warm weather outdoors. Hell, it probably felt the stuck-up coldness of that butler, too.
Way across the room, Jack Holliday rose quickly, with all the good manners of devotees of Pride and Prejudice movies. He wasnât wearing a starched cravat or stovepipe hat, though, just khaki pants and a red polo shirt and black Nikes.
âOkay, showâs on, Zee,â Claire muttered under her breath to her partner. âNow keep your cool, and I mean it. No groveling or drooling on this guy.â
Zee gave her a look of mock hurt, but he was whispering. âHa ha. You are so funny. Give me a
Claire was surprised when a butler opened the door, but then again, who else would open a sports godâs portal? More surprising, the elegant servant wore a black tailcoat, white starched shirt with ruffles down the front, and a black bow tie. White haired and dignified, he looked to be in his mid to late sixties. But he also looked physically fit and able to repel hysterical sports fans and tittering women trying to get to his boss. His skin was abnormally pale, as if heâd never been out in the sun one minute or was a vampire. Claire stared at him and felt like an extra in Gone with the Wind .
âMay I help you?â Said butlerâs accent was not Southern, not even a little bit. Oh, no, he was oh-so, ooh-la-la French.
âWeâre here to see Jack Holliday on police business.â Claire and Zee presented their badges and stated names and titles, and Mr. Supercilious Servant examined them for a whole lot longer than he needed to. Something about the manâs staid manner gave Claire pause. He wasnât exactly creepy, but he gave her the willies. Why, she couldnât quite fathom. But she did not like him, not at all.
âYes, madam and sir. Mr. Holliday is expecting you. Heâs in the drawing room.â
Yeah, she bet he was. Probably with Scarlett OâHara and Melanie Wilkes and that sissy guy named Ashley that they both had the hots for. Rhett Butler was more Claireâs cup of tea, probably because he was manly like Black. Scarlett mustâve been blind or had a thing for weaklings with wavy blond hair.
The butler preceded them with his über-formality, and they followed with their usual not-impressed-by-you-buster posture. She did feel a bit irked, if only because he seemed so uppity and scornful. They strolled through a beautiful foyer, which contained the expected curved and highly polished staircase entwined with more fresh greenery that smelled heavenly and a ten-foot-high, expensively decorated Christmas tree that would impress Black to no end. They passed under a glittering chandelier that looked as if it had been filched out of a medieval cathedral or the White House. Frenchie walked with the brisk step of a much younger man, and then stopped and slid open a pair of well-oiled, white double pocket doors. They were announced, not by name but as the police officers the gentleman had been expecting. Okay, she guessed that pretty much summed them up.
Frenchie disappeared, and they stood in the doorway. The parlor did indeed look like a room where Jack Hollidayâs purported octogenarian granny would serve tea to her hoop-skirted old cronies, all right. Claire sure couldnât picture Holliday sitting on those little gold and red velvet chairs with knotted fringe and crocheted doilies. Now that would be a big bull in an antique china shop. But he was doing just that, and he did look like the aforementioned bull. He sat on a hump-backed, gold and white striped brocade sofa in front of a pink veined white marble fireplace. The mantel was carved with beaucoup angels and cherubs playing harps and floating on clouds. The logs in the hearth were crackling and snapping up a storm, despite the warm weather outdoors. Hell, it probably felt the stuck-up coldness of that butler, too.
Way across the room, Jack Holliday rose quickly, with all the good manners of devotees of Pride and Prejudice movies. He wasnât wearing a starched cravat or stovepipe hat, though, just khaki pants and a red polo shirt and black Nikes.
âOkay, showâs on, Zee,â Claire muttered under her breath to her partner. âNow keep your cool, and I mean it. No groveling or drooling on this guy.â
Zee gave her a look of mock hurt, but he was whispering. âHa ha. You are so funny. Give me a
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