Scene Stealer Read Online Free Page B

biographical profile. It listed his higher education, accomplishments in the fast-food field and the names of several prestigious charities with which he was associated.
    â€œMost impressive. But I would appreciate a different slant, Bertram. Uhh…mm…Robert.” His new name did not fit the boy I once knew.
    â€œSlant, Miss Weidenmaier?” He smiled an ever-wider smile; the boy surely had more than the requisite number of teeth. Was that a glimmer of amusement I saw in Bertram’s eyes? If so, I intended to ignore it.
    â€œWhat about your relationship with Kevin Corcoran? Kevin is your Cowboy Bob, you must certainly be concerned. Have you received a ransom note or a telephone call? Any word from Kevin’s kidnapper? Do you have any idea who or why anyone would execute such a dastardly deed?”
    â€œAre you a crime writer, Miss Weidenmaier? Shouldn’t a retired school-marm write poetry and paint watercolors?” Barton wasn’t amused anymore.
    â€œWe never know where fate will lead us. Who would have thought little Bertie Barton would grow up to be Robert Barton? Now, young man, have you heard from Kevin’s kidnapper?”
    â€œNot a word, Miss Weidenmaier,” he said. “A terrible thing to happen to the youngster. Terrible. Upsetting. Kevin is like a son to me.” Concern passed his lips but never reached his eyes. He pressed a button on his desk. “We are cooperating with the police, of course and…”
    His secretary opened the door then knocked.
    â€œYour staff is here, sir. Time for your meeting.”
    â€œAhh, yes. Of course. Come in, gentlemen.” Bertram ushered me to the door as a group of men identically dressed in dark blue, pinstriped suits filed in.
    â€œThank you for dropping by, Miss Weidenmaier. A pleasure to see you again.” He pressed something into my hand. “Please, be my guest.”
    I found myself standing outside the door holding a glossy booklet of coupons. They entitled me to a free burger, fries, shake and a Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Brownie Bonanza at any of Cowboy Bob’s fast-food restaurants.
    Bertram’s voice carried through the door; modern skyscrapers do not offer privacy. I could hear him issuing orders to his subordinates.
    â€œAll right, boys, it’s time to move,” he said, sounding more like the sly child I remembered. “Number one. The kid’s disappearance is great publicity. Let’s get the lead out and use it to the max. Number two. Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Brownie Bonanzas are making their debut today and they’re going to push our chain from the number two spot in the fast-food market to number one. Got me? Cousin Cora’s Cakewalks have met their match. We have the dessert no one can resist. Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Brownie Bonanzas are selling out in every test market. The reaction has been phenomenal and that’s before advertising. Now I want to see the city blanketed with flyers and coupons. The new commercial will be on all the major networks and the Sunday papers will be carrying full-page ads. I have fifteen delectable models coming in and starting today, they’ll be handing out samples on every street corner. No more first place for Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps. Her chickens are going to lay one big egg.”
    My word! Where had Bertram learned all those unfortunate expressions? He certainly did not learn them in my class. He harbored a good deal of ill will toward Cousin Cora, a string of restaurants that specialized in chicken. I decided to add someone from Cousin Cora to my list of people to be interviewed. Little Bertie had never been a good loser—was he capable of being the brains behind a plot to kidnap Kevin? The publicity generated could create enough new business to move his burger to the top of the fast-food market.
    Bertram’s secretary, an attractive but lacquered woman, cradled her telephone between ear and chin. The