The Christmas List Read Free Page B

and get this car out of here.”

CHAPTER
Five

The Friday the newspaper reported James Kier’s death began just like any other. At six A.M . Kier met Tim Brey, his company’s chief operating officer, for their weekly game of squash. As usual, Kier won every set. Afterward he stopped at the 4th South Starbucks where he drank a Venti latte while he read the day’s headlines from the Salt Lake Tribune , the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times , then he drove home, showered and dressed. Although he was usually at work by nine, today he had a meeting with a jeweler. He was designing a ring for his girlfriend’s Christmas present: a two-karat marquis-cut diamond set in a wide platinum band.
    Even though there was a private entry in the rear of the building, Kier always entered through the front door so his employees would know he was there. It was not without effect. At his arrival employees stopped their idle chatter and sprang to work as quickly as motorists hitting their brakes at the first sight of a highway patrolman.
    (A reporter once asked Kier how many people worked at Kier Company. He replied, “About half of them.”)
    He passed the front desk and walked down the corridor towhere his secretary, Linda Nash, sat at the entrance to his corner office.
    The Kier building was plain by design—a work space built for function not frills. “A picture on the wall doesn’t make me money,” Kier was fond of saying. What decor existed—a few plants and wall hangings—had been put there years earlier by his wife, Sara. Even though it was past Thanksgiving, the office was conspicuously devoid of holiday dressing. Kier didn’t believe in wasting money on seasonal frivolities and made it a point to belittle those who did.
    As he approached his office, Linda looked up from her computer. “Good morning, Mr. Kier.” She was in her late thirties, slender with long, dishwater blond hair that she wore pulled back in a low ponytail.
    â€œIs the meeting still on?”
    â€œEveryone’s waiting for you in the conference room.”
    Kier took off his coat and laid it on Linda’s desk. “My ex-wife and her lawyer are in the conference room and you call it a ‘good’ morning?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. Kier.” She hung his coat on a coat rack near his office door.
    â€œWhen’s my next meeting?”
    â€œAt ten o’clock. Mr. Vance Allen with Scott Homes.”
    â€œAllen,” he repeated. “Well, don’t talk to him. I want him on edge. And get me my coffee.”
    â€œWould you like it in the conference room?”
    â€œNo, I don’t expect to be in there that long.”
    He turned and walked away.
    â€œYes sir,” she said softly.

    Kier walked down the hall to his conference room. The long polished table of bird’s-eye maple could seat twelve, but that morning it had only three occupants: two lawyers and his wife. Kier’s lawyer, Lincoln Archibald, was a barrel-chested man with a full head of thick black hair that spilled over into bushy Elvis-style sideburns. His sideburns had once been even longer, until Kier, not one to hide his opinions, asked Lincoln if he wore the things on a bet or if he was trying to frighten children. The next time Kier saw him the sideburns had been trimmed.
    Sara had her back to the entry, as did her lawyer, Steve Pair, who was Sara’s nephew and fresh from law school. Kier wasn’t fond of Sara’s sister, Beth, and held her son in the same low regard.
    Kier slumped down in the seat next to Lincoln, quietly groaning to let everyone know what an annoyance he considered the meeting. Only then did he look at his wife. Sara wore a silk scarf around her head beneath a red, sharp-rimmed cloche. Even though they’d been separated for nearly a year she still wore the simple, quarter-karat ring with which he’d wed her on her left hand. She was always well put