Scene Stealer Read Online Free Page A

carpet, my oxfords sinking into the deep, plush pile that covered the vast expanse that led from the burnished mahogany door to Barton’s huge semicircular glass-topped desk. He perused a sheet of paper, head down, eyes scanning the sheet. My presence went unacknowledged.
    I used his pretense to glance at the studies of cartoon characters grouped on one wall. Kevin’s picture, dressed as Cowboy Bob, was in center place. On the left was a sketch of the dancing French fries executing a hoedown. On the right, a framed drawing of Frederick the Fresh Fish, blowing bubbles. Another sketch, as yet unmounted, rested against a corner of the desk—a trio of luscious brownies dressed in cowgirl outfits. Photographs of the sponsor with celebrities and political personalities, including New York’s mayor and both senators, filled in the rest of the wall. I reached the desk and cleared my throat.
    â€œGood afternoon.”
    â€œHello! I’m Robert Barton.” Springing to his feet, he circled to the front of his desk, extended his hand and pumped mine with unwarranted enthusiasm. The same smirk he had worn during the television interview flashed across his face for an instant, to be replaced by open-mouthed recognition.
    â€œMiss Weidenmaier?”
    â€œMy word! Little Bertie Barton!”
    We stared at each other in disbelief. I was the first to recover.
    â€œWell, Bertram, you certainly have made something of yourself.”
    â€œI’m sure you can take some credit for that, Miss Weidenmaier.”
    â€œMost gracious of you, Bertram.”
    Silence. We eyed each other; insincere grins stretched our mouths into something similar to those carved on pumpkins. I mentally totted up the years that had passed since his elementary school graduation.
    The scent of expensive aftershave perfumed the office air. The scent triggered memories of Bertram as an impeccably clean, well-groomed child; a sign of the man to come. His thick, dark brown hair was now touched with silver at the temples, but his complexion, smooth and clear, appeared untouched by time. He wore a fine, custom tailored suit and a conservative, red-and-blue striped tie. The tie was decorated with a whimsical gold stickpin shaped like a dancing French fry. Bertram had grown taller than I would have expected—unless he was wearing elevator shoes. He certainly wasn’t the roughneck I had seen with Kevin.
    I was a trifle disconcerted. Bertram never paid proper attention in class but managed to achieve the highest marks in tests. Though his grades were consistent, I had sensed something lacking in the youngster. He was a mental butterfly touching lightly on every subject before flitting off. I never found any definitive proof but I had thought of him as a sly-boots who would not be averse to cheating.
    â€œPlease, Miss Weidenmaier, have a seat. I’ve thought of you often. School days, school days, dear old golden rule days. You’re a writer now, Miss Weidenmaier?”
    â€œFreelance, Bertram. Newspapers. Magazines. Something to occupy my idle hours. If I may ask you a few questions?”
    He walked to a bar stocked with sodas of every flavor and chose a diet cola, popped the tab and drank from the can while eyeing me over its rim. “May I offer you a soft drink?”
    â€œNo, thank you, Bertram.”
    â€œThe name is Robert now, Miss Weidenmaier.” His manicured hands smoothed his perfectly styled hair. “What a shame, if you had bothered to call ahead, one of my assistants would have set up an interview at a more convenient time.” He made quite a show out of checking his watch. “I do have five minutes before my next scheduled appointment.”
    Bertram, now Robert, opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a printed fact sheet. “You know, of course, about my early education. This should fill you in on my business background. What else would you like to know?”
    I glanced at the