Red Shirt (Miami Jones Florida Mystery Series Book 10) by A.J. Stewart

Author:A.J. Stewart [Stewart, A.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jacaranda Drive
Published: 2018-11-18T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Mrs. Pickering was standing on the door step when we pulled around the driveway in the ancient Taurus. She neither smiled nor frowned, and again I wasn’t sure if she was capable of either expression, or if she was just well-trained. Either way, I reminded myself to never play poker with her.

We got out and stood at the base of the steps to the door, Mrs. Pickering looking down on us like a school matron.

“What’s next,” she asked.

“I’m going to need the keys to the BMW in the garage,” I said.

“What?” spat Brett. “That’s not a lease. We own that car.”

I shook my head, and then I looked back up at Mrs. Pickering. She nodded curtly and then pushed the door open.

“You’d best come in.”

It was a grand house from the outside. The inside was even more impressive. I had seen my share of big houses in Palm Beach, but there was something about hurricane-proof concrete construction that lacked a certain charm. This house was all charm. It was like a charm offensive. The air felt warm, not hot, as if the thermostat was tailored to the individual person rather than the room, and the lighting from the chandelier that hung in the large entry hall was soft and inviting. There was a staircase that looped around the side of the hall and up to a landing, and on the other side a sitting room with furniture so pristine that it might have arrived from the boutique only minutes earlier.

I followed Mrs. Pickering through a hall into a large kitchen that led out into a great room that fit the name completely. There was a stone fireplace that was large but not gaudy, and long, rounded sofas covered in sumptuous fabrics that looked far too nice to sit on. Mrs. Pickering swept around a marble-topped peninsula and picked some keys from a bowl.

“My name is Ellen,” she said, tossing the keys to me.

“They call me Miami,” I said, and she nodded as if it were the most normal name in the world. Brett stepped into the kitchen, keeping the peninsula between he and his wife.

“How is Emma supposed to get the girls to school without the BMW?”

“Who’s Emma?” I asked.

“The nanny,” he said.

“You have a nanny?”

“Of course.”

I looked at Ellen Pickering. She didn’t strike me as the working type. “I didn’t realize you worked.”

“I don’t,” she said, without further comment.

I shrugged. “Well, first of all, you’re probably going to have to let the nanny go.”

“Are you serious?” said Brett.

“Brett, I don’t want you to fall into a convulsing mess again, but you really need to face facts here. You’re in deep doo-doo. You get it? You have no more money. Everything you own belongs to someone else now. I’m sorry for the nanny, but maybe you can help her find another job. But as of right now, you can’t afford her.”

Brett said nothing. Ellen spoke. “It’s that bad.”

“Yes. You can’t afford the nanny, the cars, the house. None of it.

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