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“Who are you?” she asks without preamble. A petite woman in her eighties, Marmie has been on the scene for decades and presumably knows everyone who’s anyone.
“My name is Liz Slate, Ms. Adler,” I say. “I’m representing Sloane Westing.”
At the name of my eminent boss, Colton and Selina glance my way curiously. Marmie’s face, however, pinches.
“Sloane!” she scoffs. “She owes me $15.”
The accusation is voiced as strongly as if Sloane had stolen fifteen million and kicked her dog.
I grin weakly, unsure how to respond.
Surprisingly, it’s Selina who does. “Oh, leave her alone, Marmie,” she says, shooting a sympathetic look my way.
“I won’t,” Marmie says obstinately. “Sloane owes me! And now she sends someone in her place so she doesn’t have to face me! I know how it is and I won’t stand for it!”
In a gesture of extreme defiance, Marmie takes out both her hearing aids and puts them on the table with a triumphant look before pointedly turning away from me.
“Yikes,” I say. “Didn’t think I was going to have to answer for the sins of the past.”
“Just ignore her,” Selina says. Then she adds, in a joking fake whisper, “She’s just still upset about Rhett.”
Oh boy. Join the line, lady.
“What did Rhett do to her?” I ask.
“It’s old gossip,” Selina says. “Well before our time. But Marmie has convinced herself that Rhett was going to leave Sloane for her. It’s ridiculous, but then Marmie has a way of making everything about herself.”
Now I’m fully confused, and Selina reads my expression instantly. “Oh, honey. I mean Rhett, Sloane’s husband. Not their son.”
“Oh, that makes a lot more sense,” I say. “Do you know him?”
Selina makes a face. “Never had the pleasure. You know he died in Afghanistan in, like, 2002, right?”
I hadn’t. I’d always assumed that Sloane was divorced, and that Rhett’s dad was an older version of one of them, either working doggedly in finance or living the wild life somewhere warm and sandy. The truth is much more sobering. How old was Rhett when his father died?
Selina continues, “They say he was incredibly dashing. A Marine officer and helicopter pilot. And extraordinarily nice as well. He wasn’t from the banking world, of course. That was Sloane’s thing, but even decades later people around here still talk about him.”
“Come on, babe,” Colton says with a teasing grimace. “You’re making me jealous here.”
“Learn how to fly a helicopter and maybe then I’ll swoon,” Selina playfully jabs back.
Dashing? Kind? Apparently Rhett Senior wasn’t like either his wife or his son. And banking was Sloane’s thing? I always assumed that Sloane and her husband had started the Westing Bank together. A lot of my assumptions are turning out to be completely wrong. I’m about to ask for clarification when a voice barks behind me.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
If the situation weren’t so precarious, the note of all-consuming rage in Miranda Lee’s voice would sound as sweet as a summer rain. Somehow I manage to keep gloating glee off my face as I turn calmly toward her.
Though once I assess the situation, it’s all I can do to not look like I’m about to shit my pants.
The fire of a thousand suns is an understatement. Miranda is livid.
And she has security with her.
“What do you mean?” I ask with what I hope appears like genuine confusion.
“Why. Are. You. Sitting. Here.” Miranda says through gritted teeth.
“Here?” I repeat.
