Janet Evanovich - Full Tilt

"You don't sound especially fond of your sister."

"Oh, I'm crazy about Deedee, although we've never had much in common. She's ten years older than me. Not to mention a little flaky at times," he added.

"Your brother-in-law doesn't seem at all concerned about what's going on," Muffin said.

"Frankie knew what he was getting into when he decided to go into politics, and he's not the first politician to receive hate mail." Max paused and smiled. "You know, Muffin, you're supposed to read my mail and report to me, not make judgments or offer advice. And then pout when I don't agree," he added. "One would think you were capable of emotion." The pride in his voice went unchecked. "And they said it couldn't be done. Guess I proved them wrong."

"You're gloating, Max. It's not flattering. Somebody needs to teach you a little humility."

"A good woman could do that."

"She'd have to be armed and dangerous."

"Send a fax to Miss Swift and tell her I'll drop by after lunch tomorrow. That'll give her time to have her hair done and buy a new dress for the occasion."

"Oh, puh-leese."

"Then take a nap. You're getting moody on me."

"You know I don't nap. That genius mind of yours couldn't find its way out of a paper sack without my assistance; much less make it all the way to Beaumont, South Carolina. Face it, Max. I'm indispensable."

* * * * *

"Double damn!" Jamie Swift dropped the fax as though it were hot to the touch. It fluttered to the top of her desk, face up, as though openly defying her to ignore it.

Her secretary, Vera Bankhead, drew herself up sharply. "You'd better be glad your father isn't alive to hear you, young lady. I warned you about using foul language in this office, what with me being a God-fearing Baptist and all. You owe the kitty one quarter for cursing."

Without taking her eyes off the fax, Jamie reached into a side drawer of her desk where she kept a stash of change. She pulled out a quarter and handed it to Vera. Sixty years old and the closest thing Jamie had ever had to a mother, Vera Bankhead was a woman to be reckoned with, and the only thing Jamie feared.

"Mr. Holt is coming here? Tomorrow?"

"That's what it says."

"This must be some kind of joke."

"Looks serious as an open grave to me, but then I'm just a lowly secretary who hasn't had a raise since they did away with garter belts."

"We have to stop him."

"I keep a.38 in my purse. It'll stop a Brahma bull at one hundred paces."

"We can't kill him, Vera. Besides, he owns a sizable portion of this newspaper. We simply have to find a way to detain him. I mean, would you look at this place!"

Both women paused and glanced around the office, or what there was left of it.

Vera nodded. "Yeah, well, I told you not to sell all the furniture."

"You knew you needed the money."

Jamie's managing editor, Mike Henderson, raced into her office, light brown hair uncombed, shirt badly wrinkled, and his coat askew. His briefcase reflected his personality; the fake leather pouches were stuffed with papers and newsworthy articles that he planned to follow up one day but never got around to. The tie he kept on hand in case he needed it peeked out from the side pocket of his jacket.

"Wonder whose bed he just crawled out of?" Vera muttered.

"Sorry I'm late," he said.

Jamie pressed her lips together in irritation. Mike was a good editor, but his poor time-management skills and sexual prowess kept him from doing the job he was capable of. She attributed it to immaturity; after all, he was only a year out of college. But he worked cheap.

"Do you know what time it is?" Jamie asked.

He paused and checked his wristwatch. "Oh, man, I'm later than I thought."

Vera gave a snort of disgust. "Long night?"

He looked slightly offended. "Okay, so I have a reputation for, well, never mind, but I actually worked most of the night and morning because of our deadline. I must've drifted off to sleep at some point because next thing I knew—"

"Well, Miss Swift has enough to worry about without you showing up this time of day."

He looked at Jamie. "Did another piece of equipment break down?"

"Worse," Vera said. "Mr. M. Holt is coming tomorrow, and this place is pitiful."

Mike looked around. "Yeah, we could use some furniture. Not to mention a few desks. I'm working on a damn card table. By the way, who the hell is M. Holt?"

There were no secrets in the office. Everyone knew Jamie struggled to keep the newspaper afloat. "Mr. Holt is the investor who prevented the bank from foreclosing on this place," Jamie said. She looked at Vera. "Why does he get to curse, and I don't?"

" 'Cause I didn't practically raise him and teach him good Christian manners like I did you. Besides, he's going to hell anyway for his tomcattin' ways."

Mike sighed. "I have trouble committing."

"You need to learn to keep your britches zipped, mister, and you need to be on time for work."

Mike's face reddened, but he, like the rest of the staff, knew better than to talk back to Vera. "What does the M stand for?" he asked as though desperately wanting to change the subject.

Jamie shrugged. "Who knows? I was just so glad to get the money I didn't care." She pulled out the center drawer of her battered desk and fumbled through it for a pack of unopened cigarettes.

Vera planted her hands on her hips. "Don't you dare light that cigarette, missy, or I'm going to quit on the spot, and then you're going to have to pay someone real money to run this office. Have you forgotten how hard it was for you to give up smoking in the first place? The only reason you started to begin with was because your daddy smoked."

"I'm not going to light the darn thing, Vera." Jamie tore into the pack and stuck one of the cigarettes between her lips. Oh, how she craved one. If ever there was a time to light up it was now. "We've got to do something about this place."

"Why are you looking at me?" Vera asked. "I don't have any say-so around here. I just keep my mouth shut and do what I'm told when I'm told. But let something go wrong and everybody comes running to Vera. Yessirree." She sank into the old leather chair facing Jamie's desk. "Somebody get me a cup of coffee. It helps me think better."

Jamie hurried down the hall and into the small kitchenette or what had once been a kitchenette before she had been forced to sell the refrigerator, microwave, table and chairs, and everything else that had not been nailed down. Thankfully, the cabinet and small stainless steel sink remained, which meant the coffeepot had a resting place and running water to rinse and fill it. Jamie returned to her office and handed Vera a cup of coffee that looked as though it had been brewed the day before. "It's hot," she warned.

Vera sipped cautiously. "Okay, I hate to do this, but I guess I have no choice. We can't allow Mr. Holt to see this place as is." She glanced around. "Lawd, I don't remember when these walls were last painted. We need to do something about that, too."

"You have an idea?" Jamie asked hopefully.

"A few people in this town owe me favors."

Jamie noted the thoughtful look on Vera's face. Baptist or not, the woman could be downright devious at times. "I'm listening."

"You know Herman Bates who owns Bates's Furniture? His son has been busted twice for DUI. Just so happens I was a nice person and kept it out of our arrest section. And then there was that messy scene between Tom Brown and his wife—"

"Tom Brown who owns the paint store?" Mike asked.

"Uh-huh. Seems he told his wife, Lorraine, he had to work late one night so he could finish painting the VFW Hall, and Lorraine decided to check it out. Found him and Beth Toomey doing the nasty on a sofa in the back office. I heard Lorraine went after both of them with a letter opener. Beth managed to call nine-one-one, and Lorraine was hauled in and thrown into the slammer."