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She swallowed hard. “I’d appreciate whatever you can do.”
He smiled. “That’s more like it. Around here we take things more slowly.”
“I fully appreciate that you do things differently around here,” she said, her voice tight. She was off to a terrible start this weekend. “But I’m only here for four days and I don’t have the luxury of taking things slowly.”
She thought again of the missing envelope, with the letter about Beatrice. It wasn’t as if she could call the editor, tell her the letter had been lost and ask if she could send another copy. Beatrice’s publisher was a major client of Page-turner Promotions and Josie absolutely couldn’t afford to risk alienating the publisher, for fear that they would drop her company altogether. And that the company, in turn, would drop her.
On top of that, Josie thought with horror, what if the confidential information was sensitive in the sense that the public shouldn’t get wind of it? Beatrice was the celebrity author of the moment, and a lot of journalists were trying to tear her down. On top of that, thanks to the theme of her cookbook, Beatrice had come under the feminists’ wrath, so that was another whole group looking for ammo against her.
But Josie couldn’t let Dan Duvall know all of that. Who knew what motivated him? “Look,” she said, “I really need some of the papers that were stolen. For work. They’re not of interest to anyone else, but if you find anything that looks like it could be relevant, you would save me an awful lot of hassle.”
He shrugged. His shoulders were really quite broad under the thin cotton of his shirt. If he wanted to catch criminals, he probably could, bare-handed. “You got it. Well, it was nice meeting you, Miss Ross.”
“Ms.,” she corrected automatically, then immediately regretted it.
“Ms.,” he amended, showing the almost-dimple.
“My apologies.” He was dismissing her, there was no doubt about it.
She hesitated. Dismissive or not, he was obviously trying. He didn’t know how important those stolen papers were to her. “I’m sorry about the desk. And—” she gestured “—Deputy Pfeiffer back there. Although, as I said, I wouldn’t have let him out.”
A little warmth came into his eyes and they crinkled at the corners. He was a great-looking man. In fact, he would be a deadly combination for some women. “It’s like I always say, you city folks are just too trusting.”
“We are, huh?” She couldn’t help but smile, albeit reluctantly.
Incredibly, he smiled back. “Oh, yeah.”
A tremor coursed through Josie.
Suddenly there was a loud ruckus at the door. A man who looked like a thin, wiry version of Dan Duvall was led in, apparently against his will, by two older gentlemen.
“I didn’t know it was a wig!” the dark-haired man was protesting loudly.
Dan sighed. “Excuse me,” he said to Josie, and got up from his desk.
Although she was curious about what was going on, the office was so small that there was no way she could stand by unobtrusively and watch. “Please call me at the inn when you’ve found my things,” she said. “I’m in room 508.”
“I know where you are.”
Josie watched as he strode across the room. He moved well, she noticed. Not many men could look graceful and masculine at the same time. It was hard to take her eyes off of him, but she managed, then left.
Dan Duvall did have his hands full, Josie had to admit. Maybe she should have been more patient with him. How many thousands of times had her mother repeated the cliché about catching flies with honey instead of vinegar?
She also had Beatrice to consider. It wouldn’t be good for Beatrice’s public image to have her publicist arguing with the chief of police.
Which reminded her, Beatrice must surely have made it to the Silver Moon Inn by now. It was after seven o’clock.
She hurried back through the town, barely noticing the many picture-postcard scenes, to the inn. After a ten-minute search of the lobby and upstairs rooms, Josie feared that Beatrice not only wasn’t there, but she might not be coming at all.
No sooner did she have the thought than the front doors banged open. A round elderly woman, with gray curls atop her apple-cheeked visage, made her way in, using a knotted cane for support. Behind her was a young woman, with lank dark hair and a figure like a toothpick, holding a baby.
It was Beatrice. It had to be. Josie let out a long pent-up breath and thanked God that things were finally going to get back on track.
Her thanks went out just a moment too soon.
“Get the hell out of my way, boy, I don’t need your damn help!”
Josie stopped short and watched in open-mouthed horror as Beatrice Beaujold whacked the bellboy in the shins with her cane.
That’s not Beatrice, Josie thought as the woman raised her cane again and thumped it against the hapless bellboy’s leg. That can’t be her.
But it was her, all right. Josie recognized her from her publicity photos.
Something must have happened that Josie didn’t see, something to justify Beatrice’s outburst. Maybe the bellboy had touched her accidentally, she reasoned. And Beatrice thought he was being fresh.
Josie didn’t quite believe it, but no better explanation was coming to her. There had to be a good reason for what must surely be a rare outburst. Beatrice Beaujold was kind, a grandmother figure, the sort of wise older woman people went to for advice. That was the image her colleagues at Page-turner Promotions had projected for her.
Obviously, she’d just been caught at a bad moment. Josie would have a delicate word with her about publicity and how important it was to maintain a good public image.
She steeled herself and crossed the lobby to where the older woman was still creating a commotion.
“Ms. Beaujold?” Josie said as she drew near.
“Who’s that?” Beatrice snapped, squinting behind thick round glasses.
Josie extended her hand. “I’m Josie Ross, from Page-turner Promotions. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, yeah?” Beatrice looked Josie up and down, as if she were assessing a prize on Let’s Make a Deal.
From the look on her face, Josie expected her to either bid a dollar or ask for the goat behind door number three.
“That all you’re wearing?” Beatrice asked.
“W-what?” Josie stammered, putting a hand to her sleeveless silk blouse. “What I’m wearing?”
“Hardly decent.” Beatrice sniffed and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Go cover yourself, girlie. No one needs to see all that bare flesh.”
Josie glanced at her knee-length skirt and sleeveless white blouse, which she was evidently going to be wearing all weekend unless she could find a decent clothing store, and wondered what Beatrice was seeing that she was not. “I’m sorry, I don’t under—”
“A little modesty never hurt,” Beatrice declared.
There was no answer to that. Josie decided her best bet was to change the subject. “Well. Is this your niece, Ms. Beaujold?” she asked, smiling at the girl with the baby.
Beatrice shot a glance at the young woman with the baby. “Yes. Cher, introduce yourself proper, girl.”
The girl lurched to attention, as much as her stick figure and the chubby baby in her arms would allow. “I’m Cher,” she said dully.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Baby’s Britney, if you can believe that. My brother’s kin.” She widened her eyes, shook her head and all but cranked her index finger in a circle at her temple.
Josie forced a smile. This was no momentary lapse, she realized with horrible certainty. This was Beatrice’s personality. No wonder no one else wanted to take on this job.
No wonder Susan Pringle had written confidentially about “special challenges” with Beatrice. God knew what that letter said, but if it got out…. At best, the public would get wind of some less-than-flattering comments about Beatrice. At worst, Beatrice would get wind of them herself and leave her publisher. Who might then fire Page-turner.
Who would then almost certainly fire Josie.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
“And are they staying for the evening?” Josie asked in a voice not quite her own.
“Weekend,” Beatrice corrected. “I’m stuck with ’em.” She gave Josie a look that challenged her to have a complaint about it.
“Oh.” Josie nodded a little too vigorously. What was she going to do? If word got out that Beatrice was so…unpleasant…it would be terrible for her and for the PR firm. But how was she going to hide it?
Quickly she realized what she had to do, the only thing she could do. She—Beatrice’s publicist—had to keep Beatrice quiet and out of the public eye as much as possible.
No wonder everyone had bowed out so Josie could have this “plum” assignment. No one wanted it!
“Hot as hell in here,” Beatrice said, fanning her face with her hand.
It was the perfect segue. “We’ve reserved a wonderful air-conditioned suite for you on the top floor,” Josie told her. “Plenty of room for all of you. In fact, I think you’ll enjoy it in there. There’s a wide-screen TV, a fully stocked minibar and a refrigerator. You might not want to leave the room once you see it.” She gave a light laugh while sending up a fervent prayer. “Oh, and we sent up some Rocky Top Beer, too, which you can take home with you.”
It was like throwing a cocktail meatball to a hungry rottweiler. Beatrice looked satisfied for a moment, but then she frowned deeply and snarled, “I hope I don’t have to take all them stairs to get up there.” She looked dubiously at the gorgeous sweep of a stairway.
“No, no, there’s an elevator in the hall,” Josie assured her. The pleasant expression she had frozen on her face was beginning to melt. She couldn’t keep this up much longer. She took Beatrice’s key out of her pocket. “Here’s your room key. I’ll show you the way.” She led Beatrice and her small entourage toward the elevator.
“So,” she said as they walked, searching the air for something to say that wouldn’t bring criticism. “I understand you’re going to be cooking some of your famous dishes while you’re here. How fun.”
“Nothing fun about cooking,” Beatrice said, sniffing.
“No?” Josie was surprised. She thought that, at least, was something Beatrice felt warmly about.
“But people love your recipes. Surely you must enjoy creating them.”
Beatrice snorted. “Nope. It’s a gift.” She spat the word as if it were a gnat that had flown into her mouth. “Damn gift. All the women in my family have it. My grandmother, my mother. Sister missed the boat, though. Madge.” Her mouth turned down at the corners into a very unpleasant expression when she said Madge. “She’s jealous that I got it.”
“She doesn’t cook?”
Beatrice heaved her heavy shoulders. “Haven’t seen her in more’n five years.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
Beatrice nodded, and for a moment Josie thought she spotted a little tenderness. “Too bad it ain’t been ten years,” she said.
Josie nodded and pressed the up button for the elevator.
They waited.
“So. The Beaujold women have a gift for cooking,” she said, pressing the button again. Where was the elevator? The inn only had five floors. How long did it take an elevator to get from top to bottom?
Beatrice stared at her with beady eyes. “Wickham women. And the gift is for bewitchin’ men,” she said with an absurd swing of her hips. “Seducing ’em. They cannot resist. The recipes,” she finished, “are simply how we do it.”
“Lots of people seem to think the recipes work magic,” Josie said, thinking of Buffy and others she’d met who swore by the book. She’d never given the idea much credit, but she was surprised at the number of stories she had heard of men making proposals—proper and otherwise—over chilis and hot cakes from the book.
“You got a husband?” Beatrice asked unexpectedly.
“Not at the moment, no.” She saw a change in Beatrice’s expression and added quickly, before she could be accused of being a half-dressed lesbian, “Someday, maybe, but right now I’d rather not get tied down.”
“Smart girl.” Beatrice thumped a meaty finger against her temple. “That’s where I made my mistake. Shoulda just played the field.” She cocked her head toward her granddaughter. “Tried to tell Cher that, but she got it all confused and had a baby.” She shook her head. “Girl’s got nothin’ upstairs. Nothin’.”
Cher gave her aunt a look of sheer hatred.
“Remember to get them cheesecakes out of the car when you’ve unloaded your stuff, girl,” Beatrice barked, then said to Josie, “They asked me to bring them cheesecakes of mine, even though they’re gonna bring nothin’ but trouble. Haven’t met a man yet who didn’t turn into a horn dog on eatin’ them. ’Course, it’s like that with most of my recipes, but the creamy ones in particular. Chocolate pudding, cheesecake. Guess people like to spread it on their body parts or something, I don’t know.”
“Excuse me,” said a small voice from behind Josie.
Josie turned to see Lily Rose from the front desk. “The elevator is out of order.”
“Out of order?” Josie repeated. “When will it be fixed?”
“Oh, we’ve called the handyman already,” she said, as if that would mean something to Josie. “But since it’s after hours now, he was already in bed. He’s on the way, though.” She looked at Beatrice. “In the meantime, Ms. Beaujold, can I show you to your room?”
“Well, somebody better,” Beatrice said, with a look that implied Josie had better fix the elevator herself if the handyman didn’t come through.
Beatrice stopped and turned back. “You the one with my check?” she asked Josie.
“I’m sorry?” Josie asked, although she knew full well what Beatrice was getting at.
“The check. My appearance fee for comin’ here. They said you’d have it ready for me.” She held a meaty hand out. “Let’s have it.”
It took Josie a moment to formulate the words. “I…I don’t have it on me. It’s in my briefcase.” That much was true. “I’ll get it to you later.”
Beatrice frowned. “I don’t work until I have it in my hand. Make no mistake.”
It was an interesting choice of words, considering Josie had already made about fifty. “Don’t worry about a thing,” Josie said, as brightly as she could. “You just go on up and get some rest.”
Beatrice wasn’t so easily distracted. “You’ll have the check for me then?”
“Absolutely.” Somehow. Even if she had to write it herself. It probably wouldn’t bounce until after Beatrice got home.
Apparently satisfied, Beatrice gave a nod and dragged Cher and Britney off behind Lily, just as Dan Duvall approached.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she rubbed her hands across them. “Did you find my briefcase?”
“Not yet. But—”
He was interrupted by a small pack of women flouncing by. An impossibly buxom platinum blonde tossed a seductive look over her shoulder and said, “Hey, Dan. Long time. What’s the matter, don’t you like me anymore?”
