Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I had parked too far from the curb. My first step was straight into a deep puddle. Of course. The disgusting water sloshed over my Manolo Blahniks. “Dammit to hell!”
I lowered my Birkin and swung the graffiti-marred steel door open.
The scent in the lobby hit me like a wall, stale soda mixed with piss, vomit, and death. My eyes watered and I pressed my wrist to my nose, the Chanel No. 5 blocking the worst of the assault.
Bits of paper were scattered everywhere—faded circulars, coupons, old bills. No art on the walls except for a single picture of a scruffy clown juggling flowers, wearing an ill-fitting smile. The carpet was threadbare, scuffed by thousands of feet in cheap rubber shoes, all of it drowning under a pool of fluorescent overhead lights.
No concierge greeted me. Not even a minimum wage security guard.
Just a dingy wall with a suspect-looking elevator.
I pulled a tissue from my purse and used it to press the “Up” button.
There was no fucking way I was walking up eight flights of stairs in these heels. I might actually break a sweat, or worse, scuff a shoe, and that simply would not do.
Using the tissue to select the eighth floor, I held it under my nose as the elevator shuddered and sprang to life. I didn’t have to worry about it stopping on a lower floor. The residents had been forced out several months ago…as a precaution.
The elevator shuddered to a stop. I exited and walked down the dimly lit hall until I reached the last door on the right. Using the large gold band ring on my right hand, I knocked. At the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door, I threw back my shoulders and pushed my ample chest up, showing off my black-lace-covered cleavage. The door swung open.
“Hello, darl—”
I was thrown to the floor by a hard slap across the face.
CHAPTER 27
ELIJAH TOMPKINS - BUTLER
The piercing telephone ring broke the stately calm of the gloomy early evening.
With an irritated exhale through my nose, I carefully slid the bottle of 1945 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild back in its wine cradle.
Before removing my white cloth gloves, I swiped a speck of dust off the vintage Bordeaux's yellowed label. With a grimace at the unwanted intrusion, I left the solitude of my butler's pantry and crossed the hardwood floor of the massive estate kitchen to the landline telephone.
The staff had asked for the phone system to be updated, but I refused. There was nothing dignified about hunting for a wireless phone between the couch cushions.
As I passed a housemaid on her hands and knees scrubbing the ancient floorboards, I waved my hand to an area over her right shoulder. "You missed a spot."
Her glare burned the back of my neck, but when I turned her eyes were cast down, her brows furrowed in concentration. If she'd been so focused before, perhaps I wouldn't have had to remind her of her failings.
I'd deal with her insubordination and subpar work later.
Turning my gaze back to the shrill ring of the landline, I caught the maid's rolling eyes in the shining reflection of a copper pot. She wasn't going to last. I made a mental note to skip speaking to her directly and instead go straight to the housekeeper, Mrs. Bigsby, about the sour disposition of her new housemaid. I cleared my throat before lifting the phone receiver. "Ravenscroft Estate, Head Butler Mr. Tompkins speaking. Whom may I ask is calling?" I intoned slowly and deliberately.
"Cut the crap, Elijah, it's Stewart."
I yanked on my suit vest before smoothing my palm over the buttons to make sure it lay properly. I then reached for my gold pocket watch, a gift from Mr. Worthington's father. I read the inscription, To my loyal servant, before checking the time. It was 5:27 p.m.
I was expected in Mrs. Bigsby's office in precisely three minutes to approve the week's menus and I still hadn't fully decanted the Bordeaux for tonight's dinner of roast lamb, which would be served promptly at 8 p.m.
This phone call was a disruption to my day I could ill afford. "Sheriff Walsh, this is an intrusion I neither invited nor appreciate, and I would thank you not to use such foul and, might I say, wholly inappropriate language for a man of your position."
How this man was elected sheriff of Cliffs End I would never know.
Stewart's laugh turned into a prolonged smoker's cough before he finally responded. "Jesus H. Christ, El, we went through school together. You helped me graffiti the water tower when Crystal Shanks dumped me. Can you stop with the bullshit Sheriff Walsh crap? There's a problem."
I did not appreciate the crude reminder of my humble upbringing. If only the sheriff had endeavored to rise above the station he was born to. Suppressing another reprimand, I asked, "What seems to be the issue?"