Diana Palmer - Love By Proxy

“Thanks, Dolores,” Amelia sputtered at the stunned hostess. “I’ll do you a favor someday. What’re your favorite colors, and I’ll send flowers along with the bomb.”

“Terrorist threats and acts,” the policeman muttered as he led her toward the waiting squad car. “Honest to God, you could get ten years.”

Amelia started to speak just as a photographer rushed up and exploded a flashbulb in her face.

“Open the coat, honey, open the coat, let’s get some good pics!” the photographer called, and the policeman put her in the car and went forward to argue with the photographer.

Amelia sank back against the seat and closed her eyes. There are days, she thought pleasantly, when it’s just the very devil to get out of bed at all.

She eventually got everything straightened out. But it took a phone call to a very upset Marla, who had to come downtown and explain everything to the desk sergeant, who looked like a man who’d heard everything once and didn’t have a spare nerve left in his entire body.

“I will die, I will just die,” Amelia moaned when she and Marla were back at the Kennedys’ garage apartment. “Imagine me being arrested! Arrested! And for flashing…. I will kill that man,” she said, wide-eyed. “I will kill him stone-cold dead.”

“I may help you,” Marla said darkly. “Imagine, setting up poor Andy and his mother that way.” She frowned. “But, darling, Andy had gone home to see about his mother. She got sick early this morning.”

Amelia stopped and blinked. “What?”

“Andy went home.”

“But he told me to go to La Pierre tonight,” she gasped. “He told me to ask for Carlos….” She moaned again. “And there was a photographer! He took my picture!”

Marla stared at her. “What if he was a press photographer?”

She buried her head in her hands. “I’ll die.”

“Well, maybe he wasn’t. You get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning it will all seem like a bad dream, you’ll see.” Marla hugged her. “You’ve had an awful night, I know. Just have a nice bath and go to sleep, and in the morning it will be all right.”

“Will it?” Amelia asked pitifully, needing reassurance.

“Really.”

But in the morning, she went to get her newspaper. And when she opened it, there she was, shocked face and all, on the front page, being arrested in a trench coat. And the cutline read, “Who says flashing is passé? This young lady was arrested au naturel at Chez Pierre last night for attempting to flash the exclusive clientele. Tough luck, isn’t she lovely?”

She closed the newspaper just as the phone rang. She didn’t need even one guess.

“Hello, Mr. Callahan,” she said hopefully.

“You’re fired!” he yelled, and hung up.

She sat down with a sigh beside her cooling morning coffee. So much for things getting better.

After she dressed, she phoned Marla. “I want Mr. Wentworth Carson’s address.”

“Darling…” Marla began.

“You call Andy and find out for me where he lives. I am not going to do this at his office, I am going to go to his home and kill him where he stands.”

“But, darling….”

“Do it.” She hung up.

Several harrowing hours later, after she’d exhausted the terrifying possibilities of unemployment and the rent being due, she drove up the long, winding driveway of an estate in Lincoln Park. It was an exclusive neighborhood, and she wasn’t shocked by the very elegant and enormous brick home sitting at the end of that flowery, tree-shaded drive. She parked her elderly but respectable Ford at the front door and got out, glaring at the white Rolls Royce as she passed by on her way up the steps.

She was wearing her gray business suit with a sedate white blouse and white accessories. She looked very prim and proper with her hair in a bun and the minimum of makeup. And she only wished she could drive a tank into the front door. She wanted to make a very good impression on Wentworth Carson. A lasting, physical impression.

She rang the bell. An elderly man opened the door and smiled at her. “Yes, madam, may I help you?”

“I am here to see Wentworth Carson,” she said quietly.

“Mr. Carson is in the study,” he said. “May I announce you?”

“You may not,” she replied, pushing past him. “I will announce myself. Which way is the study, please?”

The elderly man hesitated, but his restraint was unnecessary. Wentworth Carson himself was standing in the doorway of the plushly carpeted room, wearing slacks and a burgundy knit shirt, hands in slacks pockets, staring at her.

“Miss Glenn,” he said politely.

“Mr. Carson,” she replied with equal politeness.

“Why are you here?” he asked curtly. “And how did you get this address?”

“Those questions are hardly relevant.” She produced a folded newspaper from under her arm and handed it to him.

He frowned and then opened the paper. His eyes blinked as he read. His head lifted. “What the hell did you do, woman?”

“I went to La Pierre to surprise Andy.”

He was trying not to laugh. “Well, it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? He didn’t show up.” He glanced at her. “But didn’t you look at the sign?”

Her head moved a little. “What?”

“Didn’t you look at the sign?”

He handed her the paper. She looked. There on the marquis was “Chez Pierre.”

She felt faint. But she was made of sturdy stuff. During the Civil War one of her great-grandmothers had held off a company of Yankees for two days until help arrived to vanquish them. Amelia stood erect.

“Andy was at home with his mother,” she said.

“Yes, I know. I hadn’t expected him to come into the office, and he didn’t call me until last night. I didn’t have time to warn you.”

She was still staring blankly at him. “I got arrested. They took me to jail. They booked me. I was fingerprinted. They thought I was naked. I told them I wasn’t, but they wouldn’t listen. They locked me up!” Her eyes got wilder as she went along. “My father subscribes to this paper.” She held it up. “He likes to know what’s going on in the city where his daughter lives.” She stared down at the newspaper. “What a shock this will be. I’ve never even worn shorts downtown back home.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. That only made it worse. She flung the paper on the floor while the elderly butler tried diligently to keep a straight face.

“Mr. Callahan called me this morning. He fired me. Now I’ll have to go back home. The people in the post office will see that paper, and so will the mail carrier, and the mail carrier will tell his wife, and she’ll tell the ladies at church….” Her lower lip trembled as tears threatened. “I hate you. And I made Marla get your address from Andy so that I could come here and tell you how much I hate you. I hope your Rolls Royce rusts!”

She turned around and started out the door, just as a quavering voice asked, “Who is that, Worth?”

The voice was of someone the butler’s age, but feminine. Through tears, Amelia saw a tiny old woman moving into the hall from the room on the other side of the house. She could hardly walk; her gnarled hands were on a padded walker. She stood just inside the hall and looked for all the world like a cuddly toy. She smiled, brightening her blue eyes and her pale, wrinkled complexion.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“H-hello,” Amelia said, and even managed a watery smile.

“I couldn’t help hearing,” the older woman apologized. “Worth hardly ever guffaws like that; it woke me from my nap. Are you the young lady he was bellowing about last night? You don’t look like a belly dancer.”

“Actually, I’m a retired ax murderer,” Amelia said with a cold glare at Wentworth Carson. “Just recently retired.”