The
Contract
by
Stacie Spielman
 
Price: $4.95
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Chapter 1 of The "Contract"
The brown clay pot lay in shards, scattered about the
redwood deck. Sidestepping the dirt to avoid soiling his shoes, the
architect glared at the startled vandal. "Drop the geranium and back
off."
Standing his ground, uprooted geranium clenched in his
beak, the fearless gander returned the glare through one beady eye,
daring his master to come and get it.
"Damn it, Ruben, I don't have time for this," David
fumed. "If Thelma comes out here and sees what you've done, we'll both
be dead meat. Now drop the friggin' flower!"
From inside the house, David could hear the roaring whine
of the "sweeper" working its way toward his den. "You hear that,
Ruben? Thelma's coming." Just for a moment, David was tempted – really
tempted – to leave the mess for Thelma to find, and let Ruben fend for
himself. It would serve him right for tormenting the old lady. But no.
That would be tempting fate. David loved them both, and had no desire
to see either do the other one in.
Stooping to collect the remains of the pot, David watched
the goose from the corner of his eye. He really didn't have time
for this. He was due at the banquet hall in less than two hours.
When he'd first received the invitation, David hadn't
intended to go. But that was before the realtor in charge had told him
Pat Forbes' ex would be there. A few phone calls had confirmed what
he'd suspected. The ex Mrs. Forbes' business was in the black, but
barely. With the debts she'd inherited from Forbes, she didn't stand a
chance in ten of digging herself out in the foreseeable future.
Dark eyes twinkling despite his irritation, David swept
the spilled dirt through the cracks in the deck. Fate had dealt him a
winning hand. He'd played the lead card yesterday morning when he
mailed the registered letter. The next move was up to Kelly.
Kelly's gray-blue eyes reflected her concern as she
thanked the postman and closed the door. Drawing a quavery breath, she
tried to still the trembling of her hands as she ripped open the
registered letter.
"So?" her roommate prodded. "Who's it from?"
The letterhead embossed on the linen-textured paper was
bold, yet glaringly conservative, as if the sender were so confident of
his own abilities that he felt no need to flaunt them. "It's from an
architect," Kelly said in a puzzled voice. "Someone named David
Crowley."
The pudgy blonde took a last slurp from her strawberry
shake, then hefted herself onto the kitchen barstool and dabbed at her
freckled nose. "Why would an architect be sending you a
registered letter?"
Skimming the first page of the letter, Kelly brushed a
dark strand of hair from her face and shook her head as if trying to
clear a fog. "Apparently, Pat hired him to do a job, then bagged out on
the bill." Flipping to the second page, she stiffened.
"What is it?" Jan asked. "You look like you've seen a
ghost."
As quickly as the blood had drained from Kelly's face, it
rose to stain her cheeks with a crimson flush. "He says since Pat
contracted the job while he was married to me, I owe him half.
That's twenty thousand dollars!"
"Twenty thousand bucks! That means the original bill was
forty thousand smackaroos! What did Pat do? Hire this guy to design a
mansion for his harem?"
"Something even more ridiculous than that." Kelly's
soft voice held traces of a faint Virginia accent acquired during
summers spent with grandparents as a child. "Apparently Pat hired this
guy to design and draw plans for a colonial shopping center! Pat
doesn't have any experience in property development. Have you ever
heard anything more ridiculous?"
Legally, Kelly knew Crowley had a case. By California
law, she was responsible for half of her ex-husband's debts, even though
she'd had no part in the deal. Crumpling the letter and flinging it
across the room, Kelly blinked back the tears that had sprung to her
eyes.
"Maybe you could take out an insurance policy on Pat,
then flush him down the toilet," Jan suggested.
Despite the absurdity of the suggestion, Kelly had to
admit it held a macabre appeal. "Wishful thinking will get us nowhere.
Did you take care of the banquet decorations?"
"Nothing like switching horses midstream," Jan answered.
"Of course I took care of the decorations. Table settings are already
in place. And the flower arrangements, if I do say so myself, are
drop-dead gorgeous."
Kelly didn't even know why she bothered to ask. Others,
she couldn't be sure of, but she always knew she could count on Jan.
"Did Pete deliver the salmon?"
"Salmon and salad makings are in the fridge at the
banquet hall," Jan answered. "The rest is on the counter. Marilyn said
the first guests will be there around six."
Sometimes Kelly wondered what she'd do without Jan's
help. If she hadn't had Jan to handle the legwork and decorations,
these past few weeks would have been pure hell. But someday it would
all be worth it. She'd have Pat's debts paid off, and could get on with
her life. She'd had hopes of Jan's staying on permanently. But now Jan
was thinking in terms of marriage, and if Frank had his way she'd be
giving up her half of the catering partnership to work with him in his
upholstery shop. Though Kelly would never try to influence her friend's
decision, she secretly had her fingers crossed that Jan would decide
against it.
Feeling as if she were fettered with lead weights, Kelly
flopped onto the over-stuffed sofa and pulled off the mauve pumps she
had worn for this afternoon's bridal shower. The living room was
comfortably, but inexpensively furnished in "early garage sale," as Jan
liked to describe it. They'd had the blue sofa and chairs reupholstered
in a soft nubby fabric to complement the profusion of floral throw
pillows scattered about the room. Kelly had designed the ceramic lamps,
and refinished the oak end tables herself.
With an effort, Kelly picked up her shoes and pulled
herself to her feet with a sigh. She needed to arrive at the banquet
hall at least an hour and a half in advance to prepare the food and make
certain everything was in order. That left less than an hour to shower,
get dressed, and drive across town. There wouldn't be time to eat before
she left. She'd just have to grab a quick bite at the hall.
Clad in a V-necked black silk dress with pearls and
matching earrings, Kelly opened the heavy metal door and climbed into
the converted van. The van had once served as a plumbing truck, and had
come pre-equipped with storage shelves. Aside from a major clean-up,
the only conversion it had required was a coat of blue paint, the
installation of a refrigerator/freezer, and a calligraphic sign reading
Petit Fours to Shish Kabobs. The name was meant to convey a menu that
ranged from elegant pastries to patio fare. Apparently it was working.
Since changing the name from "Catering to Your Needs," business had
nearly doubled.
As a general rule, Jan handled the kids' parties and
casual assignments, leaving the midstream and elegant to Kelly.
Tonight's banquet fell somewhere in between.
Unlike most caterers in the area who "dressed down" for
work and stayed in the kitchen out of sight, Kelly preferred to dress
for the occasion, and usually did the serving herself. Woven throughout
her sable French braid tonight were sprigs of mint leaves and baby's
breath. She was aware that the effect of black hair and clothing was a
stunning contrast to the blue-gray of her eyes. Black hair and blue
eyes were hereditary traits peculiar to her father's side of the
family. Kelly had inherited her slender build from her mother. Waving
through the window, she called a good-bye to Jan, then started the
engine and put the van in gear.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the banquet hall.
The parking lot was empty, as she'd known it would be. Despite the fact
that the lot was well lit and she could see a light in the kitchen,
Kelly parked the van by the kitchen door to unload. Within moments, she
had transferred the lemon ices from catering van freezer to kitchen, and
donned a ruffled apron.
The tossed salad was simple to prepare, and quickly
dispensed into large salad bowls. The French bread and tri-mustard
tomato salad took a bit more time... Trying not to dwell on thoughts of
David Crowley, Kelly slid twelve loaves of bread into the upper oven,
and assembled her tomato salad ingredients. What am I going to do
if Jan decides to quit? she worried. The holiday season was just
ahead. There was no way the workload could be handled alone, and
training a replacement for Jan could take months!
Mindful of the onions' pungent aroma, Kelly carried them
to the stainless steel sink and turned on a stream of cold water.
Within moments, sans tears, onions had been peeled, sliced and
separated, and tossed with the other salad ingredients.
Already, her feet were beginning to ache. As much time
as her job required being on her feet, one would think she'd know better
than to come to work wearing new shoes that hadn't been broken in.
Kicking them off, she checked the clock to make sure she was still on
schedule.
The cool linoleum floor felt good to her stockinged feet
as she tossed the salad in the tri-mustard vinaigrette. It had taken
her three years to pay off her share of Pat's debts. Three years of
dreading to open the mail. Now, just as she'd gotten her head above
water, it was starting all over again.
Damn Pat for getting her into such a mess. And damn
David Crowley for choosing now to send his bill! With this
disturbing thought in mind, Kelly put the salads in the walk-in fridge
and went to check the dining hall.
The twelve tables in the banquet hall were covered with
white linen cloths, and had been set with chip-resistant dinnerware and
blue fan-folded napkins. At the center of each table, Jan had placed a
sprawling floral arrangement of purple tinted daisies accented with
ferns and baby's breath. Freshly polished chandeliers and a gleaming
hardwood floor served to add warmth to the banquet setting.
With a glow of satisfaction, Kelly returned to the
adjoining kitchen where the scent of bell peppers, vinegar, and onions
hung heavily in the air. A faint tickle ran up the back of her calf,
and for a moment Kelly thought it was a spider. Twisting her leg and
bending to look, she groaned. A narrow, but obvious runner was inching
its way up her leg. The hardwood floor had snagged her nylons. Thank
Heaven she always had the foresight to bring an extra pair.
A quick glance at the wall clock confirmed that she had
adequate time before guests were due to arrive. There was no need to go
to the restroom to change. She could do it right here. Reaching
beneath the silk skirt of her dress, Kelly peeled the snagged panty hose
down below her knees.
She was seated on the white linoleum floor, skirt hiked
to the groin, intent on the task of working the nylons off over her feet
when the kitchen door swung open. Heated blood rushed to her face at
the sight of the intruder looming in the doorway. "Oh!" she gasped. "I
– I was – Who–?" Having temporarily lost the power of speech, Kelly
stumbled to her feet, still bound by the ruined panty hose.
Undisturbed by her obvious state of embarrassment, the
man at the door eyed her bare legs appreciatively. He was tall – at
least 6'2" – with a rugged physique clearly visible beneath the fine
cloth of his black suit. His thick dark hair was casually cut, with one
stubborn sprig that split from the rest to feather across his tan
forehead. "Excuse me. I was looking for the caterer, Kelly Barrister.
Is she here?"
At the sound of her name on the stranger's lips, Kelly's
heart, already racing, threatened to burst. Stepping out of her nylons,
Kelly looked up at the intruder, forcing her eyes to meet his insolent
gaze. She was 5'7" in her bare feet. Judging from the way the man
towered over her, she'd been right in guessing him to be over six
feet. She had no idea who he was, or how he came to be looking for
her. But the dining hall was empty. She was on her own. She
couldn't risk identifying herself; not until she found out what he
wanted. "Kelly couldn't make it tonight," she rasped. "I'm her
room-mate, Jan. Can I help you?"
The stranger's eyes danced with apparent amusement.
"No," he demurred. "I really need to speak to Miss Barrister herself.
I hope she isn't sick."
"No," Kelly assured him. "She's fine. She just had to –
" Her mind was scrabbling for a plausible explanation. She'd never been
good at lying, especially on the spur of the moment. "She had to stay
home and – bake."
"Bake?"
"Cookies. Lots of cookies. She – She's having a birthday
party tomorrow – a party for her nephew. She's doing the cake and
cookies tonight."
"In that case, since she's at home, I could call her
tonight," the man replied. "All I need now is her phone number."
"No!" Kelly cried. "I mean, she's probably very busy.
If you'll just leave your name, I'll tell her you were asking."
"Thank you, but no." The man's voice was deep, with a
faint accent Kelly couldn't identify. "I'd prefer to surprise Miss
Barrister myself."
Kelly's heart was beating so loudly, she wondered if he
could hear it. "Oh," she said in a hollow voice. "Then, if you'll
excuse me, I have work to do. If you go back out the way you came, the
banquet hall's through the double doors on the right."
Please, dear God, let him leave without trouble.
The dark-haired man left without further comment, leaving
Kelly to puzzle over who he was, why he was looking for her, and
how he had known he would find her here. Whatever the answer, it
couldn't be good. He was probably a friend – or enemy – of
Patrick's, trying to track her down.
Twenty minutes later, aware of the sound of arriving
guests, Kelly opened the swinging doors a crack to see if Marilyn
Fletcher had arrived. The flamboyant realtor was easy to spot, with her
flaming red hair and lime green suit. She was seated at the center
table, waving her hands in an animated discussion with the man who had
come here looking for Kelly.
Catching Kelly's eye, the realtor rose and excused
herself. As she rose, the man stood also, turning his dark gaze toward
the kitchen door and sending a chill the length of Kelly's spine.
Apparently the man had a tic in his eye. She couldn't have seen
him wink.
Quickly turning away, Kelly drew a shaky breath. The man
in black had obviously used some form of deception to wangle an
invitation to the banquet. But how could he have known he would find
her here?
When Marilyn opened the swinging doors, the musky scent
of her cologne preceded her into the kitchen. "We'll give the guests
ten or fifteen minutes to mingle, then you can serve the bread and
salads. The table arrangements are beautiful, by the way, and the bread
smells heavenly. You and Jan have done it again."
Still shaken, Kelly drew a shallow breath and turned to
face the realtor. "Thanks," she said with a tight smile. "I needed
that."
When the realtor had gone, Kelly turned back toward the
counter and ticked off a last minute checklist of things that had yet to
be done. It had taken every ounce of will power she could muster to
avoid asking Marilyn about the man in black. The only thing that had
prevented her asking was that she didn't want to admit to Marilyn that
the man was here looking for her.
Mindless panic rose in Kelly's chest as she frantically
searched for an explanation. Maybe Pat had borrowed from the Mob! He
had never been choosy about where his money came from. Once when she'd
dared to question him, Pat had said she was better off not knowing.
Suppose this was a Mafia hit man, sent here to crush her kneecaps
if she didn't tell him where to find Pat! Suppose, Heaven forbid, he
refused to believe she didn't know where Pat was?
With this disquieting thought in mind, Kelly loaded the
bread and salad bowls onto the serving cart and backed into the banquet
room, pulling the cart through the double doors. Careful to avoid eye
contact with the alleged mobster, Kelly nervously distributed the salad
bowls and bread baskets, then returned to the kitchen to check on the
salmon filets and put the rice and string beans on to steam. So far so
good. Now for the drinks.
Pushing the cart ahead of her, Kelly moved among the
noisy tables serving beverages, and greeting familiar guests. As she
approached the table where the dark-haired man was seated, Kelly steeled
herself for the encounter. "Coffee? Tea? Or punch?"
"The coffee smells good," the man replied, looking up
with an appraising glance. "Black, with two sugars."
This time there was no mistaking it. That was no tic.
He had winked at her! What kind of cat and mouse game was he playing –
toying with her like a ball on a string?
Serving his coffee with trembling hands, Kelly drew a
calming breath. It wasn't like her to be this easily rattled. He
probably hadn't been sent by the Mob at all. He was probably just
planning a party, and needed to hire a caterer. Why couldn't she
believe that?
"You look very nice with that baby's breath in your
hair," the man said in a voice too quiet to draw attention. "I see
you've managed to change your nylons."
A slow burn rose to stain Kelly's cheeks at the remark
about her nylons. Ignoring both the compliment and the barb, she
moved to the next table without comment.
When she'd finished at last with the drinks, Kelly
retreated to the kitchen to load the remaining bowls and platters.
Arching her back to relieve the ache, she heaved a shaky sigh. Just one
more serving round, then she could eat....
She'd saved a small plate of food for herself. The
kitchen had no bar stools, so she ate standing up. How would an
acquaintance of Patrick's – even a mobster – have finagled
an invitation to a real estate dinner? The man in the dark suit
might be a potential investor. But unless the Mob had gone legit, Kelly
doubted he would be here as a lender. Immersed in her thoughts, she
barely tasted her dinner.
By opening the kitchen door a crack to peer out, Kelly
could see that most of the guests had finished and would soon be ready
for dessert.
As she made her way around the tables serving seconds on
drinks and collecting empty plates, Kelly could feel the dark man's gaze
upon her. The closer she came to his table, the more apprehensive she
became.
"Would you like a refill on your coffee?"
"I think I'll have tea this time around." He was looking
at her in a way that, had Kelly not known why he was here, she might
have welcomed as a sign of attraction.
"Well then," she said nervously, "Would you like tea in
your sugar?"
The catch light in the man's dark eyes danced. "Sure.
Why not? I've never had it that way before."
Blushing, Kelly poured his tea and used tongs to deposit
the sugar cubes. Would you like tea in your sugar? He must have
thought she was the village idiot! Unable to shake that unsettling
thought, Kelly returned to the now sweltering kitchen.
Normally, the ceiling fans handled the heat, but tonight
only one was working. To make matters worse, one of the fluorescent
bulbs had begun flickering. Quickly unloading the plates into the sink,
Kelly muttered a prayer that the lights would stay lit. The last thing
she needed was to be stuck in the dark trying to clean the kitchen with
a mobster in the building – even if he did just happen to be the sexiest
thing since caviar.
Kelly's heart was racing as she wiped the cart and loaded
the lemon desserts. Already, the ices were beginning to melt. If she
didn't get them out of this kitchen soon, she'd be serving the guests
lemonade!
Uncomfortably aware of the perspiration beginning to
trickle between her breasts, Kelly wheeled the dessert cart into the
hall. If she could just get through this round without incident...
"Dessert? Would you like a lemon ice this evening?"
When she came to the mobster's table, the mobster
narrowed his eyes. "Your roommate must look a lot like you. You
fit the description I was given: slender figure, black hair, blue-gray
eyes..."
"I'm sure there must be a thousand women who fit that
description," Kelly chirped. Crabs. Now on top of everything
else she was losing her voice. Taking a lemon ice from the serving
cart, she leaned forward with the intention of setting it on the table
in front of him.
"Your hand's shaking, Miss – What was the name again?"
"J-Jan Hastings," Kelly stammered. "Just call me Jan."
"Alright – Jan. Here, let me help you." In an effort to
take the dessert from her hand, the man inadvertently brushed her wrist.
Startled, Kelly jumped back at his touch, tipping the
sherbet bowl in her haste. The rapidly melting lemon ice slipped out of
the bowl and plopped into his lap. It was the mobster's turn to be
startled. Leaping to his feet with a yelp, he dabbed at the front of
his pants with his napkin.
Kelly's cheeks flamed as she stared in horror at the hit
man's fly where the lemon ice had struck before falling to the floor.
The red-haired realtor, acting on impulse, plunged her
napkin into her water glass and hurriedly wrung it dry. Dabbing the
lemon spot on the mobster's pants, she breathlessly apologized. "I'm so
sorry, Mr. Crowley. I just don't know how this could have happened."
The name hit Kelly like a blow to the stomach.
Crowley? she thought sickly. Did she say Crowley? Surely he
couldn't be –
"Don't worry about it. I'm fine," Crowley croaked,
pushing the cloth away with a pained expression. "The accident was my
fault. I'm afraid I startled Miss Hastings when I accidentally bumped
her hand."
"Hastings?" Marilyn echoed. "Oh no. You're confused.
Jan Hastings is Kelly's partner." Oblivious to Kelly's
discomfort, Marilyn rushed through the introduction. "David Crowley,
this is Kelly Barrister. Kelly Barrister, David Crowley. You may have
heard of him. Mr. Crowley is an architect."
Burying her face in her hands, Kelly spun on her heel and
ran from the room, knocking the cart out of her way in her haste. She
had never been so embarrassed in her life – dropping a frozen dessert in
a dinner guest's lap; mistaking an architect for a mobster! If she
lived to be a hundred, she would never forget this night.
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The Contract
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