Sheer Gall by Michael A Kahn

Author:Michael A Kahn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2015-05-23T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Vincent Contini crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head firmly. “Never, Rachel. I would view it as a betrayal of my relationship with my ladies.”

It was Sunday afternoon, and Vincent and I were in my office going over a few matters in preparation for the libel trial, which was just four days off. Although I don’t usually work Sundays, it was a day more convenient for Vincent, and this particular Sunday I didn’t mind getting out of my house, which was teeming with employees from St. Louis Shield Security, who appeared to be installing a security system for a CIA safe house.

Ozzie and I had gone for a jog through Forest Park and dropped by Basically Bagels for a snack—an onion bagel with cream cheese and a large coffee for me, a pumpernickel bagel and a small bowl of water for him. Then we drove over to my office, where Ozzie promptly collapsed on the rug with a sigh and fell asleep, his paws over his ears.

“But, Vincent,” I assured him, “I can tell these women that I got their names off a guest list for the event. They’ll never know my real source.”

“But I would know, Rachel. A secret betrayal is no less a sin than a public one.”

I leaned back in my chair and silently groaned. Ten thousand retailers in St. Louis, and I end up representing the Sir Thomas More of designer dresses. “It’s hardly a sin,” I said, trying to hide my frustration. “Three of your customers bought dresses for the Children’s Hospital benefit. You said yourself that all three are loyal patrons of yours. If one of them remembers what Cissy Thompson was wearing that night, I’m sure she’d be delighted to help you by testifying at trial.”

Another adamant shake of the head. “Out of the question. This unpleasant dispute is entirely my problem, Rachel. I would never ask one of my darlings to sully her hands in a coarse piece of litigation on my behalf. Never.”

He reached into the breast pocket of his elegant suit and removed the white handkerchief. He patted it against his forehead and replaced it, making sure to position it perfectly in the pocket. Unlike Neville McBride, Vincent Contini’s weekend attire was no different from his outfits for the week. He was in a navy pinstripe double-breasted suit, white shirt, gold-and-gray striped tie, and black Italian shoes buffed to a brilliant shine. We made quite a Sunday contrast, with me in my St. Louis Browns baseball cap (to keep my curly hair out of my face as I jogged), an oversized gray Jane Austen Rules! sweatshirt, black jogging tights, and Nikes.

“Vincent,” I said patiently, “Cissy Thompson has sued you for millions of dollars. She will swear that she never wore that dress.”

“But she’s a liar.”

I sighed. “Nevertheless, we still have to prove it’s a lie. Otherwise, she’s entitled to a judgment in her favor.”

He gave me a serene smile. “Ah, but that cannot possibly happen.”

“Oh? And why not?”

He made a sweeping gesture with his hands.

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