A Fatal Appraisal by J. B. Stanley Read Free Book Online Page A

smiled, feeling that everyone
was listening. "I came over with Jessica and Borris, so I'll just go back
with them."
    "It's your life," Garrett teased. "Jessica is
a real New York driver. Tailgates, curses, holds up a particular finger
if—"
    "Oh, I do not!" Jessica threw her napkin at
Garrett.
    After a dessert of fried ice cream drizzled in warm honey,
Molly and her two new friends rose to leave. Molly decided to quickly introduce
herself to Alexandra and get it over with. She would rather not talk to her at
all, but as a head appraiser, Alexandra could hardly be avoided, royal snob or
not.
    Alexandra deliberately picked up her water glass the moment
Molly held out a hand in introduction. She muttered, "Charmed," in
her belittling way and turned her face away from Molly in order to tease
Garrett over having to film another segment in the States.
    "She's going to be a real pleasure to interview."
Molly sighed as she slid into the back seat of Borris's rental car.
    "She's a bitch all right," said Borris as they
drove off. "Just ignore her. We all do."
    "If she hates America so much, why is she here?"
Molly asked, eyeing a blue minivan stuffed with children as it eased itself
into their lane. The van's bumper sticker proclaimed: I’m embarrassing my
children—it's a full-time occupation.
    Jessica scowled. "Does anyone use a turn signal
anymore?' She adjusted the rearview minor. "Alexandra got demoted from the
British version of the show. Rumor has it she used to be quote a talented
director, but I heard she ruined her career by sleeping with a fellow director.
Problem is, he was married."
    "Yeah"—chuckled Borris—"to the daughter of
the network president. Oops!"
    The trio laughed in wicked merriment.
    Back at Traveller, they said their good nights and Jessica
went into the Blue Ridge room as Borris entered the Limoges. Molly made a
mental note that she would need to photograph their rooms for her article
before the week was over. Yawning widely, she changed into a pair of green
cotton pajamas covered by a pattern of pink steaming coffee cups and fell back
onto a plump, soft pillow.
    What a great assignment this was turning out to be, she
thought happily before falling asleep.
     
    ~~~~~
     
    The next morning Molly heard stirrings in the hallway and
realized she only had thirty minutes to get ready before meeting Frank. She had
completely forgotten to set her alarm clock. Quickly showering and dressing in
beige linen slacks, a light blue shirt and a sterling necklace in the Greek key
pattern, Molly decided she had just enough time to phone the office and see if
there was any news about Matt.
    When a young female voice answered with, " Collector's
Weekly , how may I direct your call?" Molly was momentarily taken
aback.
    "Hello?" the voice asked again.
    "Where's Mrs. Goodbee?" Molly finally stammered,
asking after the crotchety elderly lady who had worked the reception desk since
the paper's inception twenty-five years ago.
    "Who may I ask is calling?" the voice asked with
false sweetness.
    "Molly Appleby. I'm a staff writer."
    "Oh, Ms . Appleby," the girl placed special
emphasis on the title. "I've actually met you already. It was over two
years ago. I think you and I may have applied for the same job. You know, as a
staff writer." She giggled briefly and without a trace of merriment.
"Guess you landed it since you're out there writin' away and I'm here
answerin' the phones. Anyways, no hard feelings." She paused and Molly was
certain there was a plethora of hard feelings. "And about Mrs .
Goodbee ... she quit yesterday."
    "What? Why?" Molly asked in surprise.
    "I'm afraid that's personal information," the girl
replied firmly. Molly disliked her immensely.
    "Has Mr . Harrison called in?" Molly asked,
nastily copying the girl's tone.
    "Oh yes. He asked to speak to you, actually."
    Molly's heart skipped a beat. "And? Did he leave a
message? Did you give him my number?"
    "No, I didn't have your number. And no, he didn’t