who’d made the comment about her on The Lowdown .
“Maybe,” she snarled as she reached her limo, the driver holding the door ready for her.
Liza jerked her head toward Forty Oz. “At least you didn’t ask if I was his grandmother.”
8
Liza yawned, stretched . . . and winced as her knee complained about the sudden movement. She blinked her eyes and looked owlishly around the unfamiliar room.
No, not so unfamiliar; just a room she hadn’t been in for a while.
Michael had tried hard to make his office space into a hospitable guest room. His teak computer desk with the swing-out front for a printer had been closed and cleared for the first time in her memory. A bed had been shoehorned into the resulting open space, and someone—maybe Michelle—had attempted to make the place a little cozier, turning the closed-up desk into a combined lamp and cosmetics table with a little mirror with a gilt frame and a marble base, a woven mat, even an antique clock. Nobody could do much about camouflaging the three walls lined with bookcases, though.
No wonder I kept dreaming about being lost in the library, Liza thought.
She’d slept pretty well, although that might be put down to the late hour when she’d gotten home and the painkiller she’d popped before going to bed.
Liza gingerly worked herself to the foot of the bed and slipped into the robe she’d left there. There wasn’t a hell of a lot of space to maneuver the walker, but she made it to the door and then to the bathroom.
She emerged to find Michael already up, clad in an old T-shirt pulled over a pair of sweats. “Morning,” he said. “Feel like some breakfast?”
Liza took a deep breath, savoring the scent of coffee already on the drip. “Mmmmmm. Coffee. Good.”
Michael nodded. “Yes, coffee good. Breakfast better. Want some?”
“Want lots,” Liza replied with a grin, getting her walker into motion.
When they got installed in the kitchen, they had a very cheerful breakfast of pancakes, eggs, orange juice, and coffee.
“You pulled out all the stops,” Liza said, chasing a smear of maple syrup on her plate with her last forkful of pancake.
“It must have done good work,” Michael replied. “You’re speaking in full sentences again.”
Laughing, Liza settled back in her chair with a cup of coffee. Then the phone rang.
As Michael answered, his smile faded away. “Yes, she is here.” He stepped over to hand Liza the handset.
Liza raised it to her ear. “This is Liza Kelly.”
“Could you hold, please, for Mr. Tarleton?”
Well, now I can understand Michael’s expression, Liza thought in the brief interval before another voice came on—a much shorter interval than usual for executive suite politicos.
“Ms. Kelly, I’m sorry to impose on you.”
The last time Liza had heard that voice, Fritz Tarleton had confidently expected to push on with a hunt for a dead man’s treasure. The tourism tycoon sounded a lot more tentative now.
“You certainly tracked me down,” Liza told him. They had been rivals that last time around, and Michelle had played pretty rough to make him back off.
“I—I’d like to meet with you, if possible. About what happened—” His voice broke. “About what happened to Ritz.”
Liza looked at the phone. The usually imperious Mr. Tarleton was almost begging her.
“Perhaps an hour—” She glanced down at her robe. “Or maybe an hour and a half?”
She was about to ask where his office was, but he surprised her, saying, “I’ll be out there in an hour and a half, then.”
After a shower and a change of clothes, Liza found herself in the recliner, her hurt knee elevated—and her walker out of reach.
Maybe that’s just as well, she ruefully told herself. In normal circumstances, she’d be creating a rut in the rug pacing back and forth in anticipation of Fritz Tarleton’s arrival. Unfortunately, neither her walker nor her knee was exactly up to that job right now.
Michael had
“Maybe,” she snarled as she reached her limo, the driver holding the door ready for her.
Liza jerked her head toward Forty Oz. “At least you didn’t ask if I was his grandmother.”
8
Liza yawned, stretched . . . and winced as her knee complained about the sudden movement. She blinked her eyes and looked owlishly around the unfamiliar room.
No, not so unfamiliar; just a room she hadn’t been in for a while.
Michael had tried hard to make his office space into a hospitable guest room. His teak computer desk with the swing-out front for a printer had been closed and cleared for the first time in her memory. A bed had been shoehorned into the resulting open space, and someone—maybe Michelle—had attempted to make the place a little cozier, turning the closed-up desk into a combined lamp and cosmetics table with a little mirror with a gilt frame and a marble base, a woven mat, even an antique clock. Nobody could do much about camouflaging the three walls lined with bookcases, though.
No wonder I kept dreaming about being lost in the library, Liza thought.
She’d slept pretty well, although that might be put down to the late hour when she’d gotten home and the painkiller she’d popped before going to bed.
Liza gingerly worked herself to the foot of the bed and slipped into the robe she’d left there. There wasn’t a hell of a lot of space to maneuver the walker, but she made it to the door and then to the bathroom.
She emerged to find Michael already up, clad in an old T-shirt pulled over a pair of sweats. “Morning,” he said. “Feel like some breakfast?”
Liza took a deep breath, savoring the scent of coffee already on the drip. “Mmmmmm. Coffee. Good.”
Michael nodded. “Yes, coffee good. Breakfast better. Want some?”
“Want lots,” Liza replied with a grin, getting her walker into motion.
When they got installed in the kitchen, they had a very cheerful breakfast of pancakes, eggs, orange juice, and coffee.
“You pulled out all the stops,” Liza said, chasing a smear of maple syrup on her plate with her last forkful of pancake.
“It must have done good work,” Michael replied. “You’re speaking in full sentences again.”
Laughing, Liza settled back in her chair with a cup of coffee. Then the phone rang.
As Michael answered, his smile faded away. “Yes, she is here.” He stepped over to hand Liza the handset.
Liza raised it to her ear. “This is Liza Kelly.”
“Could you hold, please, for Mr. Tarleton?”
Well, now I can understand Michael’s expression, Liza thought in the brief interval before another voice came on—a much shorter interval than usual for executive suite politicos.
“Ms. Kelly, I’m sorry to impose on you.”
The last time Liza had heard that voice, Fritz Tarleton had confidently expected to push on with a hunt for a dead man’s treasure. The tourism tycoon sounded a lot more tentative now.
“You certainly tracked me down,” Liza told him. They had been rivals that last time around, and Michelle had played pretty rough to make him back off.
“I—I’d like to meet with you, if possible. About what happened—” His voice broke. “About what happened to Ritz.”
Liza looked at the phone. The usually imperious Mr. Tarleton was almost begging her.
“Perhaps an hour—” She glanced down at her robe. “Or maybe an hour and a half?”
She was about to ask where his office was, but he surprised her, saying, “I’ll be out there in an hour and a half, then.”
After a shower and a change of clothes, Liza found herself in the recliner, her hurt knee elevated—and her walker out of reach.
Maybe that’s just as well, she ruefully told herself. In normal circumstances, she’d be creating a rut in the rug pacing back and forth in anticipation of Fritz Tarleton’s arrival. Unfortunately, neither her walker nor her knee was exactly up to that job right now.
Michael had
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