Boardroom To Bedroom. Кэрол Мортимер

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СКАЧАТЬ tossed and turned for hours, her worry about April keeping her awake. Now April was gone—and so was Elizabeth’s car.

      As she stared at the empty spot by the curb where the car had been the night before, she asked herself why she was even surprised. This was typical. April acted as if she were a teenager, totally self-absorbed and interested in nothing beyond her own tiny world. Didn’t she know how much she worried Elizabeth? Elizabeth tried to stem the flow of resentment, but it bubbled over, hot and bitter. Was she doomed to always be the caretaker and April the one who lived life only for herself?

      A car drove by and honked. Snatching up the newspaper, Elizabeth stepped back inside and closed the door. A vague feeling of guilt swept over her. Had she been so busy working to get away from the life she and April had shared that she’d neglected April somehow? Remembering April’s angry retorts last night, Elizabeth answered herself immediately. She’d done all she could and more—and look at the thanks she’d got!

      Elizabeth dropped the Chronicle on the table in the entry and headed for her bedroom to dress for work, flipping on the stereo as she passed it.

      Still seething, she dressed quickly, pinned back her hair and slapped on a minimum of makeup. She needed this extra hassle as much as she needed another headache, and she had plenty of those even without April’s help. She didn’t trust April’s clunker, still parked outside, to get her downtown, so she called the limo company. As she waited, she gulped a cup of instant coffee and punched in the phone number at April’s apartment. After the tenth ring she hung up. Her sister didn’t even have an answering machine.

      Elizabeth tried to check her anger, but the emotion only grew. Deep down, she knew why. She was acting out the part she’d always played, just as April was. April would do something foolish, then Elizabeth would get angry and worried. They’d make up, then the dance would begin all over again. They knew their respective roles well, Elizabeth thought, shaking her head in disgust. Too well.

      Twenty minutes later she walked into her office, determined to focus on her job. It was what people paid her for. Betty Starnes, her secretary, greeted her as she opened the door.

      “Oh, good morning, Elizabeth. Did you have a nice birthday celebration?”

      Elizabeth groaned. “Not really.” With as little detail as possible, she explained the situation while Betty nodded in sympathy. She’d been with Elizabeth for years, so she understood completely.

      “And you still haven’t heard from her?”

      Elizabeth tamped down a knot of anxiety. “Not a word. So, if she calls…”

      “I’ll put her through immediately, don’t worry.”

      Elizabeth entered her office. As a consulting tax attorney, her practice ran the gamut from financial planning to settling estates. Lately most of her cases had been coming from the federal government. She was fast earning a reputation for being able to uncover the most clever of frauds, and with the government attorneys overworked and underpaid, more and more work was being sent to attorneys like her. Just the previous week she’d received a file involving a woman named Linda Tremont and her brother, Tony Masterson. They owned a family investment firm, and several of the investors had complained to the S.E.C. Mainly elderly people, most felt something was wrong with their accounts, because the only one making any money seemed to be Master-son. When Elizabeth had made the initial call to Masterson’s office, Linda Tremont had answered, explaining that she was in charge of the firm and her brother primarily gathered new accounts. Tremont was cooperating fully and appeared horrified there could be a problem. She was a leader in Houston’s high society, Elizabeth knew. She chaired all the galas and raised incredible amounts of money for the local art scene. How awful to have a brother and business partner who might ruin their family name. From what Elizabeth had seen so far, Anthony Masterson seemed as irresponsible as April.

      With a heavy sigh Elizabeth opened the file and began to work.

      Hours later, when she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, Elizabeth was shocked to see the time. Almost six! The day had disappeared, and she still hadn’t heard from April. Elizabeth quickly dialed her sister’s number, but just as before, the line rang emptily. Her worry rising once more, she pulled out her address book, looked up the number of the place on Richmond Avenue where April danced, then punched in the number.

      “Esquire Club.” The husky female voice that answered on the third ring was one Elizabeth recognized. She’d talked to Tracy on the phone several times, and they’d met once in person. Elizabeth had recognized Tracy’s type immediately, and she’d tried to warn her sister, but as usual April had blown off the advice. Red-haired and curvaceous, Tracy Kensington had been the most popular dancer at the club—until April’s arrival. In that business, the younger the girl, the better the tips, and Tracy was a few years older than April. To make up for that she vied with April for the top spot, the best time, the hottest music. Despite that, April had always been friendly toward her and still was, but Tracy didn’t return the favor. Every time she had a chance, she tried to sabotage April.

      “Tracy, this is Elizabeth Benoit, April’s sister. I was wondering if you’ve seen April today?”

      “Haven’t seen her,” Tracy replied, her west-Texas drawl replacing some of the sexy purr but not all of it. “Your sister gone missin’?”

      “She’s not missing. I just can’t get an answer at her place. She works tonight, doesn’t she?”

      “I guess so.”

      “What time is she supposed to be there?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      Elizabeth tried to stifle her irritation. The dancers were all very tight-lipped, not just to people who weren’t part of the life, but among themselves; there wasn’t a lot of sharing. Elizabeth suspected that it was simply a result of the competitiveness of the work, each dancer playing her cards close to her chest so as not to give anyone else an edge. It did not, however, make Elizabeth’s situation less frustrating. She was April’s sister, for God’s sake, not some weirdo stranger.

      She kept the annoyance from her voice. “Could I talk to Mr. Lansing, then, please?”

      Without replying, the woman dropped the phone and walked away—Elizabeth could hear her high heels clacking on the hard floor at the club. Then she heard Tracy call out, “Greg! You there? Phone call!”

      Elizabeth tapped her pen against her desk impatiently. After an interminable wait, Greg Lansing, the manager of the club, picked up the phone and said hello. His voice was as gravelly as Tracy’s, but raspier, the result, Elizabeth was sure, of too many years of booze, cigarettes and shouting over hundred-decibel rock music for hours at a time. They’d never met, but she’d seen him one night when she’d worn glasses and a scarf and sneaked into the club to watch April dance.

      Elizabeth could see why April found him attractive. Tall and well built, he had long blond hair and radiated the kind of bad-boy attitude some women found really appealing. Not Elizabeth. She’d met too many men just like him, and she could easily recognize the sleaze beneath the thin veneer of handsomeness.

      “Mr. Lansing, this is Elizabeth Benoit. I’m looking for April.”

      “Haven’t seen her.” His voice started fading even before he finished speaking. She realized he was about to hang up.

      “Wait—wait, Mr. Lansing! Please…”

      There was a second’s silence СКАЧАТЬ