A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1) Read Free Page B

ducked behind the tall back of the chair.
    The steps got closer.
    Caitlin was saying “Don’t I deserve better?”
    The male voice responded “You know the situation I'm in. It is not possible right now.”
    “When would I get mine, then? You go and buy this – you could bear to part with some more of the money for my sake!”
    “You know I can’t, not right now. And this is not the time to talk. I have to get back to my guests.” That meant that the man was George. Then I heard steps going back into the house.
    “You idiot! You’ll regret it!” Caitlin cried at his back. I heard her pacing on the patio behind me, then she abruptly turned and went back into the house with determination. I waited until the sound of her footsteps on the Italian-stone floor has died down, then peeked out from my chair.
    Hmm, sounds like Caitlin was arguing with her boss about money – getting a raise? The soothing music coming out of the outdoor speakers on the patio likely made the entire conversation inaudible to people inside the house. I idly pondered whether what I just heard meant that, behind the facade, George's fancy car dealership was not doing that well. And whether Caitlin had some anger issues.
     

2
    By this point, the party grew to probably sixty or eighty people, wandering through the huge house and gathering in clumps by the catering stations. Because of the house’s sheer size, it didn’t feel crowded. I saw again some of the people I’ve met – Wayne Kempler went to get another beer, John telling another story in the middle of a group of guests, Roger grabbing a mini-burger off the heaping plate on the kitchen counter and heading upstairs. I didn't see Rita or George – both, undoubtedly, occupied by giving tours of the house to more newly-arrived guests.
     
    Wandering aimlessly on the ground floor of the house, I turned the corner. The dining room was deserted. Music was flowing from hidden speakers. The bartender with the name tag Tim was at his station. I was very happy to see that he had some of my favorite wine open in front of him; I came up and asked for a glass of Ransom pinot noir. He declined my tip, saying everything was already covered.
     
    A paunchy medium-height man in his late-forties, with a bald spot at the top of his head (that I could see since in heels I was a couple of inches taller than he was), in khaki slacks and a dark-blue sports coat, came up to the bar.
    He ordered a martini and then turned to me.
    “How are you doing? I’m Stan Greenwich.” He extended his hand. I shook it and mumbled my own introduction.
    “I was George’s business partner in some of his earlier ventures. Where he first made all of his money.” He laughed very loudly. “How do you know him?”
    I explained that I didn't know George, but had known Rita back in the old days, before their marriage.
    Tim the bartender handed Stan his drink, and we stepped away from the bar.
    “George sure knows how to spend money – food and drink and everything covered,“ he said, taking an appreciative sip from his glass. “He learned it from me.” He laughed. “And learned how to make the money from me as well.”
    He expected me to say something, so I said,
    “That's important.”
    “Knowing how to spend well is more important.” He winked and laughed again. “And our hostess sure is great too.” I agreed with that assessment.
    “And very attractive,” He said and smirked.
    I looked closer at Stan, to try to figure out what he meant by that comment. The most polite thing I could muster in response was “Yes, she looks great tonight, doesn't she?”
    Stan laughed again, and winked at me. “And she has such cute friends, too”.
    I looked around. OK, that settled it. The guy was mostly likely drunk. There was no way he could be addressing that comment to me.
    “Ummm.... I'm sure she does.”
    “And I have the pleasure of talking to one of them right now.” He tried to bow and take my hand. I took a step