foot. Instinct told her the room was probably soundproof. “Oh, hell, blast and corruption!” She stamped around the conference table and sneered at the spilled coffee. “And I’m not cleaning up either.”
She pulled out a chair and sat down. She looked up at the large spot on the wall where Goldie’s portrait had been, then let her eyes roam quickly around the room searching for an exit she had, perhaps, missed. There were twelve chairs around the conference table; three were askew. The credenza ... Dope , she thought— the phone. She jumped up, ran around to the other side of the table and grabbed the phone from the sideboard. She got a line, punched out 411 for information—she would just call the building number and they would send someone up to let her out—got a line, tried again, got a line again. She tried her home number; the same thing happened. She pressed nine. Nothing at all. She threw down the phone. “Damn this!” She went back to the door and pounded on it with both hands, then stalked back to the table. She was dripping sweat in spite of the air-conditioning.
Only Dr. Ash and Smith knew she was here, and Smith was in Connecticut for the weekend. Smith would try to call her, but probably wouldn’t worry about not reaching her until tomorrow. Silvestri would go crazy if she didn’t come home. Hmmmmmm. That was a thought. He never seemed jealous—or at least if he were, he never let on.
She was composing grand scenarios about their unlocking the door on Monday morning and finding a crazy-lady, when she realized that brokers would undoubtedly come in to work this morning. She would be sensible, finish The Times and wait. Eventually, someone would show up. After all, it was still very early.
But Chris had been here. What had he been doing here so early? And why had he been in such a hurry to leave?
And where was Dr. Ash?
She looked at the spilled coffee forming a greasy black cloud on the table. Oh, well. If she was going to be here for any length of time, she didn’t want to be sitting in a mess. She pulled a Kleenex out of her purse and dropped it on the pool, watching as the liquid turned the tissue brown. Gingerly, she pushed the Styrofoam cup away from her toward the center of the table. The cup was warm to the touch. Chris, she thought. She pulled the cup toward her. There was something in the cup besides coffee, but the cup was too full for her to see what it was.
Across the table were another cup and a plastic plate full of crumbs. She got up and walked around the table, picked up the almost empty cup, and poured the liquid from the first cup carefully into the second. At the bottom of the first cup was a nasal inhalator, similar to the one she had seen Carlton Ash using. Yipes, she thought and dropped the cup. It fell on its side and rolled away from her.
Unaccountably frightened, she got up and tried the door again, rattling the knob and banging with her sore fist. The knob turned in her hand and the door began to open. She stepped aside, astonished, as the door opened slowly and Dougie Culver, in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, stood there holding another Styrofoam cup, shock on his face.
“Good heavens, Wetzon, you scared the livin’ daylights out of me. What are y’doin’ down here at this ungodly hour?”
She looked at her watch. Only twenty minutes had passed in the locked—or was it?—conference room. She felt a little foolish. She looked at Dougie, who was waiting. “I was supposed to meet someone here at seven-thirty, but he’s not around. I thought he might have meant the conference room, but as soon as I came in, someone slammed the door behind me and locked me in.”
Dougie listened, amusement all over his face. “Aren’t we gettin’ a little theatrical here, Wetzon?” He fiddled with the latch. “I guess it could have slipped,” he said dubiously. “Or maybe you pressed the button accidentally and locked yourself in.”
“I am not an
She pulled out a chair and sat down. She looked up at the large spot on the wall where Goldie’s portrait had been, then let her eyes roam quickly around the room searching for an exit she had, perhaps, missed. There were twelve chairs around the conference table; three were askew. The credenza ... Dope , she thought— the phone. She jumped up, ran around to the other side of the table and grabbed the phone from the sideboard. She got a line, punched out 411 for information—she would just call the building number and they would send someone up to let her out—got a line, tried again, got a line again. She tried her home number; the same thing happened. She pressed nine. Nothing at all. She threw down the phone. “Damn this!” She went back to the door and pounded on it with both hands, then stalked back to the table. She was dripping sweat in spite of the air-conditioning.
Only Dr. Ash and Smith knew she was here, and Smith was in Connecticut for the weekend. Smith would try to call her, but probably wouldn’t worry about not reaching her until tomorrow. Silvestri would go crazy if she didn’t come home. Hmmmmmm. That was a thought. He never seemed jealous—or at least if he were, he never let on.
She was composing grand scenarios about their unlocking the door on Monday morning and finding a crazy-lady, when she realized that brokers would undoubtedly come in to work this morning. She would be sensible, finish The Times and wait. Eventually, someone would show up. After all, it was still very early.
But Chris had been here. What had he been doing here so early? And why had he been in such a hurry to leave?
And where was Dr. Ash?
She looked at the spilled coffee forming a greasy black cloud on the table. Oh, well. If she was going to be here for any length of time, she didn’t want to be sitting in a mess. She pulled a Kleenex out of her purse and dropped it on the pool, watching as the liquid turned the tissue brown. Gingerly, she pushed the Styrofoam cup away from her toward the center of the table. The cup was warm to the touch. Chris, she thought. She pulled the cup toward her. There was something in the cup besides coffee, but the cup was too full for her to see what it was.
Across the table were another cup and a plastic plate full of crumbs. She got up and walked around the table, picked up the almost empty cup, and poured the liquid from the first cup carefully into the second. At the bottom of the first cup was a nasal inhalator, similar to the one she had seen Carlton Ash using. Yipes, she thought and dropped the cup. It fell on its side and rolled away from her.
Unaccountably frightened, she got up and tried the door again, rattling the knob and banging with her sore fist. The knob turned in her hand and the door began to open. She stepped aside, astonished, as the door opened slowly and Dougie Culver, in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, stood there holding another Styrofoam cup, shock on his face.
“Good heavens, Wetzon, you scared the livin’ daylights out of me. What are y’doin’ down here at this ungodly hour?”
She looked at her watch. Only twenty minutes had passed in the locked—or was it?—conference room. She felt a little foolish. She looked at Dougie, who was waiting. “I was supposed to meet someone here at seven-thirty, but he’s not around. I thought he might have meant the conference room, but as soon as I came in, someone slammed the door behind me and locked me in.”
Dougie listened, amusement all over his face. “Aren’t we gettin’ a little theatrical here, Wetzon?” He fiddled with the latch. “I guess it could have slipped,” he said dubiously. “Or maybe you pressed the button accidentally and locked yourself in.”
“I am not an
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