Come Hell or Highball by Maia Chance Read Free Book Online Page A

“Fortune,” she said, “has … flown … the … coop … for … formidable … society … doyenne.… Wait. Scratch that. No … ample … inheritance … for … ample … upper crust … matron.…”
    The gates were flung wide by the gatekeeper. “Toodles, Miss Shanks,” I snarled.
    I was about to hit the gas pedal when the reporters erupted in a tizzy. Ida craned her neck.
    Berta and I swiveled in our seats. A glossy black Rolls-Royce pulled up behind us. The reporters swarmed. The driver of the Rolls beeped the horn.
    â€œThe chauffeur honks at you, Mrs. Woodby,” Berta said. “Get a move on.”
    â€œâ€˜Get a move on’?” I whizzed through the gates. “Tell me again, when did you take up speaking like a gangster?”
    Berta compressed her lips.
    We drove up the tree-lined drive. The Rolls was hot on my fender.
    Dune House came into view. Four mammoth wings, slate roofs, and five towering chimneys mimicked an English baronial hall. An ornate iron railing ran along the roofline like a high lace collar. Stone gargoyles lurked at the edges of the gutters. Windowpanes sparkled in the early evening sunlight. Despite its aged style, Dune House was brand-spanking new and had been paid for, I suspected, mainly with proceeds from Auntie Arbuckle’s Pork and Beans.
    Several luxurious motorcars were parked in the white gravel drive, and more sat next to a stone garage large enough to house an army. I’d been to Dune House before, of course, and I knew that out back were tennis courts, a swimming pool, a hedge maze, stables, riding paths through the trees, and, about a quarter mile away, a stretch of beach fronting the sound.
    I motored to a stop. The Rolls braked behind me. Two menservants, trussed up in double-breasted livery jackets, came down the walkway. I waited for one of them to open my door. Nothing happened. I spun around in my seat.
    â€œCheeky!” I said. The footmen were opening the Rolls-Royce’s doors.
    Berta turned around, too.
    We goggled without shame.
    â€œI’ve never seen a motion picture star,” I said. “Not in person, I mean.”
    â€œSuch a fuss,” Berta said. Her eyes were glued to the Rolls.
    A pair of slim girl’s calves came into view. Then the whole girl emerged.
    â€œSadie Street, I’d guess,” I said.
    Sadie wasn’t, I had gathered from Olive Arbuckle, exactly a film star. Yet. But she looked the part. She had a lovely face and lithe flapper’s figure, dolphin-hipped and bosom-free, in a pale blue tube of a dress. Her flaxen bob came to curled points against her pale cheeks, under a blue hat.
    â€œOh, shut up, George,” Sadie said, marching up the front walk. “I told you a thousand times, I’m awful tired of hearing about lighting and scripts and things!”
    A man surfaced from the other side of the Rolls. He was short and dapper, wearing a three-piece suit. He had dark eyes and a trim gray beard. A pleasant face, yet long-suffering, like a schnauzer who needs to go for a walk.
    Berta and I levered ourselves out of the Duesy. Berta went off to find the servants’ entrance. Cedric and I went to the front door.
    Hibbers was there to greet me.
    â€œOh, hello,” I said to him. My voice had the hurt wobble of a jilted debutante.
    â€œMrs. Woodby,” he said with a bow. He cast a regal smile down to Cedric. Cedric wiped his lips on Hibbers’s trouser leg.
    I stepped into the entrance hall. I was about to introduce myself to Sadie Street and George Zucker when Olive descended upon us. Then I was caught in a tsunami of shrill greetings, air kisses, and bony hugs.
    Oh boy. Three seconds inside Dune House, and I was already daydreaming about an extra-thick slab of chocolate mousse cake.
    â€œWhere’s the pie-faced simp?” Sadie Street said as soon as Olive finished