loans. If Eddie wanted to reassure her with his pumped-up confidence about Made in Heaven's financial future, that was fine with me. Peace at any price. When Eddie gave me a list of checks he needed for Nickie's florist, liquor distributor and so forth, I wrote them up without a murmur. This wasn't standard procedure—he would normally give me the invoices themselves—but I wasn't going to challenge him. I'd resolved to go over our books with him later in the summer. Meanwhile, he was the accountant. If he gave me the numbers, I'd write the checks, no questions asked.
I even let him win an argument. Eddie had scheduled me to make the two-hour drive to Ellensburg, east of theCascades, on an upcoming Friday for some preliminary arrangements on a country-western-type wedding. That would have been fine, but he wanted me to spend the night, meet with the pastor after breakfast, and then drive back to Seattle on Saturday morning.
“Eddie, that's the day of Anita's reception at the Glacier View! I can't drive back from Ellensburg that morning and down to Rainier that afternoon!”
“Why the hell not?” he demanded. The younger generation's lack of fortitude was a pet peeve of Eddie's. One of many. “Are you going to call Fay Riddiford, one of the only four clients we've actually got at the moment, and tell her to cancel her plans because you're too feeble to drive five whole hours in one day?”
I sighed, and drew some arrows on my big desk calendar. “All right, all
right
. Lily's got friends in Ellensburg. Maybe she'd like to come with me and we can share the driving. Satisfied?”
“I'd be more satisfied if you'd do some marketing instead of—”
“Time out!” I held up a hand. “Tomorrow and Friday, I will faithfully call every single one of our past brides and ask them for referrals,
and
I'll reserve a booth at that bridal show in Tacoma. I'll even get working on our Web site. OK?”
“OK,” he said, mollified for the moment. Then, in his own gesture of peace, he tossed me the newspaper. “There's a laugh for you, halfway down on the business page.”
I read it, but I wasn't laughing. The headline said “Wife of King County Savings Chair Linked to Insider Deals?” and the byline was Aaron Gold. A former colleague—and obvious ally—of Keith Guthridge was suggesting some nasty things about Grace Parry. No outright accusations, libel laws beingwhat they are, but the implication was that Douglas Parry had made a practice of discussing King County Savings’ loan customers with Grace. And that Grace just might have used the information in her securities trading, to her own and her clients’ advantage. Near the end of the story, Gold sketched in Grace's background as Parry's second wife, a prominent socialite, and, in the words of one anonymous employee, “hell on wheels” to work for.
I dropped the paper on my desk and groaned. Hell on wheels.
I
said that,
I
was the anonymous employee—how dare he quote me without my permission? What if Grace figured out who was talking behind her back? Damn Aaron Gold, and damn my trusting nature. This was my own fault, but that didn't stop me from calling the
Sentinel
. I got a receptionist, and then the unmistakable flat, East Coast voice.
“Hi, this is Aaron Gold's voice mail. Leave me a message and I'll call you. Don't talk faster than I can write, OK?”
The beep sounded and I exploded, even angrier because I didn't have the satisfaction of doing it in person.
“This is Carnegie Kincaid, and what the hell do you mean quoting me as an anonymous employee, you snoopy son of a bitch? That was an offhand, flippant remark and you know it. Don't you have any ethics at all? And anyway I'm not an employee, I'm a consultant.”
I stopped for air, and then slammed down the phone. What else was there to say? Eddie was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, deck shoes up on the desk.
“You said that about a client? To a reporter?”
“Eddie.” I closed
I even let him win an argument. Eddie had scheduled me to make the two-hour drive to Ellensburg, east of theCascades, on an upcoming Friday for some preliminary arrangements on a country-western-type wedding. That would have been fine, but he wanted me to spend the night, meet with the pastor after breakfast, and then drive back to Seattle on Saturday morning.
“Eddie, that's the day of Anita's reception at the Glacier View! I can't drive back from Ellensburg that morning and down to Rainier that afternoon!”
“Why the hell not?” he demanded. The younger generation's lack of fortitude was a pet peeve of Eddie's. One of many. “Are you going to call Fay Riddiford, one of the only four clients we've actually got at the moment, and tell her to cancel her plans because you're too feeble to drive five whole hours in one day?”
I sighed, and drew some arrows on my big desk calendar. “All right, all
right
. Lily's got friends in Ellensburg. Maybe she'd like to come with me and we can share the driving. Satisfied?”
“I'd be more satisfied if you'd do some marketing instead of—”
“Time out!” I held up a hand. “Tomorrow and Friday, I will faithfully call every single one of our past brides and ask them for referrals,
and
I'll reserve a booth at that bridal show in Tacoma. I'll even get working on our Web site. OK?”
“OK,” he said, mollified for the moment. Then, in his own gesture of peace, he tossed me the newspaper. “There's a laugh for you, halfway down on the business page.”
I read it, but I wasn't laughing. The headline said “Wife of King County Savings Chair Linked to Insider Deals?” and the byline was Aaron Gold. A former colleague—and obvious ally—of Keith Guthridge was suggesting some nasty things about Grace Parry. No outright accusations, libel laws beingwhat they are, but the implication was that Douglas Parry had made a practice of discussing King County Savings’ loan customers with Grace. And that Grace just might have used the information in her securities trading, to her own and her clients’ advantage. Near the end of the story, Gold sketched in Grace's background as Parry's second wife, a prominent socialite, and, in the words of one anonymous employee, “hell on wheels” to work for.
I dropped the paper on my desk and groaned. Hell on wheels.
I
said that,
I
was the anonymous employee—how dare he quote me without my permission? What if Grace figured out who was talking behind her back? Damn Aaron Gold, and damn my trusting nature. This was my own fault, but that didn't stop me from calling the
Sentinel
. I got a receptionist, and then the unmistakable flat, East Coast voice.
“Hi, this is Aaron Gold's voice mail. Leave me a message and I'll call you. Don't talk faster than I can write, OK?”
The beep sounded and I exploded, even angrier because I didn't have the satisfaction of doing it in person.
“This is Carnegie Kincaid, and what the hell do you mean quoting me as an anonymous employee, you snoopy son of a bitch? That was an offhand, flippant remark and you know it. Don't you have any ethics at all? And anyway I'm not an employee, I'm a consultant.”
I stopped for air, and then slammed down the phone. What else was there to say? Eddie was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, deck shoes up on the desk.
“You said that about a client? To a reporter?”
“Eddie.” I closed
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