Sins Out of School by Jeanne M. Dams

Author:Jeanne M. Dams [Jeanne M. Dams]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2013-06-09T16:00:00+00:00

19

AN anticlimax can feel like that extra step one sometimes takes at the top of a dark flight of stairs. The foot comes down with a thump and one is jolted to the top of the head. I must have looked peculiar, because Amanda frowned and said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Martin?”

Fortunately I didn’t have to say what I’d been thinking, because there was a knock at the front door. I looked out the window. “It’s all right,” I said. “The reporters are gone. It must be Mr. Carstairs. Shall I let him in?”

“Please. But no one else!”

It was indeed the lawyer. When I opened the door, he stood looking pink cheeked and very pleased with himself.

“Mission accomplished, I think.” He all but dusted his hands together.

“And well done, too! Will they be back, do you think?”

“Not, I believe, if they think I’ll be here. I treated them to several pages of legal precedent, quoted verbatim and with citations. None of it meant anything, but those who weren’t intimidated away seemed to decide it was time for a nap.”

“If I didn’t think Alan would find out, I’d kiss you, Mr. Carstairs. Would you like to come in?”

“Unless you think I can be of further assistance, I must, alas, go back to the office. I have an appointment. My secretary rang me up on the mobile; she’s on her way to fetch me. But please call on me anytime.”

“I’ll do that.” I’d pay his bill, too. It was worth every penny to be allowed to talk to Amanda in peace.

I closed and locked the door, just in case, and called up to Amanda, “You can come down. They’ve gone away, and Mr. Carstairs doesn’t think they’ll be back.” I thought about going to the kitchen and putting the kettle on, but I’d done enough high-handed tea making in Amanda’s house. I would let her make the suggestion.

And it was, in fact, the first thing she mentioned. I wished I’d brought something in the way of food. Not that I needed anything to eat. It was early for afternoon tea, and I’d had a big lunch. But I doubted she’d eaten much, if anything, and there was no telling what was in the house.

I squelched that idea, too. Stop interfering, Dorothy. Everybody in the world doesn’t need you to run their lives for them.

She settled me in the frigid lounge and went to make the tea. I looked around. The room was scrupulously neat and almost antiseptically clean. The floor was covered with linoleum that was meant to look like wood, but didn’t. The furniture, a “suite” of sofa and two chairs, was covered in a scratchy fabric in a depressing shade somewhere between brown and gray. It looked as if it would, unfortunately, never wear out. Skimpy brown curtains hung limply beside the two small windows. The room, like the bedroom, had no ornaments, no pictures on the walls, no books. A lightbulb shielded by a small tan paper shade dangled on a cord from the middle of the ceiling.

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