Chapter 5: Not For Sale

Suzette went to the brunch, and she went alone, because she said that was the only way to hear the whole offer.

I sat in the tow truck across the street from the Palm Court with her phone line open in my ear.

Ten minutes in, I heard a chair scrape.

"Miss Whitaker," Desmond said. "You look lovely."

"Thank you. Your note said my future."

"It did."

A waiter poured coffee, and I heard a spoon tinkle.

"My nephew is in over his head," Desmond said.

"My father is seventy-four, and he wants to dress up a tow-truck driver as a king."

"I thought Jonas was doing fine."

"Tonight he was. Next month he won't be. There are eight more trials, and each one is harder than the last."

"And?"

"And you're a nice girl with a good job. You shouldn't be there when it falls."

Paper rustled.

"That is a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," Desmond said.

"All you have to do is tell him you're leaving."

For a moment I heard only dishes.

I gripped the wheel so hard it creaked.

Then Suzette laughed.

It wasn't loud, but it carried, and I heard heads turn at the next table.

"Mr. Wetherill," she said, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do with this."

"Miss Whitaker."

"I'm going to tear it in half."

The sound was very clear.

"And in half again."

"You are making a mistake."

"And I'm going to leave it on your plate, with the hollandaise," she said, "so your waiter can bring it back to you."

A chair scraped.

"Have a lovely morning," she said.

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