Statue of Limitations Read Online Free Page A

just be a minute. Won’t you please have a seat?”
    I looked around in desperation. It was the first time I regretted not taking archeology in college. I finally located a folding chair, but it was buried under a stack of heavy law books.
    â€œI don’t mind standing,” I said.
    â€œJust put the stuff on the floor, darling,” she said. “It really doesn’t matter where. We’re in the process of getting new furniture. I’ll be sorting through everything anyway.”
    â€œThat’s all right, I really don’t mind standing.”
    She covered the intercom with the palm of a plump hand. “I’m supposed to keep you waiting ten minutes,” she whispered to me.
    I moved closer. “Excuse me?”
    â€œMakes it seem like we’re busy.”
    â€œBut you’re not?”
    â€œConfidentially, you’re our first new client this week.”
    â€œWhat about White and Sand? They get a lot of clients, right?”
    â€œI’m afraid there are no White and Sand.”
    â€œCome again?”
    â€œMr. White moved to Atlanta three years ago, and there hasn’t been a Mr. Sand as long as I’ve worked here, which was five years in May.”
    I took a step back. “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, but I just remembered that I have a doctor’s appointment.”
    She smiled. “Most new clients say something along those lines. But those who stay are glad they did. He really is the best.”
    â€œThen why doesn’t he have more clients?” Iclapped a petite paw over my maw. Sometimes my upbringing as a Southern lady is overridden by my curiosity.
    Her eyes widened. “You haven’t heard the rumors?”
    I shook my head. “He’s not the one who killed his parents, is he? I remember reading something about that in the paper once. Managed to acquit himself by playing on the jury’s sympathy for orphans.”
    She laughed softly. “No, he didn’t kill his parents. He cut his wife’s hair.”
    â€œSay what?”
    She leaned across the desk and used her ample bosoms to cover the intercom. “He has a hair fetish.”
    â€œHe does?” Okay, so maybe a smart Abby would have backed out of the room and taken the bacon-and-bathroom-scented stairs at breakneck speed.
    She nodded vigorously. “He gets his jollies from cutting women’s hair. His wife finally divorced him, but by the time she did, she looked just like me.”
    â€œYou don’t say!” Actually, there was a good deal more I wanted her to say.
    A good secretary knows how to read minds, and this woman proved the rule. “Yes, he cut mineas well. Paid me a thousand dollars each time I let him do it.”
    â€œIndeed. So everyone in Charleston knows about Mr. Hammerhead’s fetish?”
    â€œOh, not everyone. You didn’t. Mostly just people of a certain—how should I put this?”
    â€œSocial standing?”
    â€œYour words, darling, not mine.”
    Before I had the chance to protest being lumped with the hoi polloi, the door to Mr. Hammerhead’s office opened. The man framed by the sill was surprisingly handsome. Tall with dark hair and green eyes, he looked entirely normal to me—not that I am qualified to judge. Even his clothes—blue and white seersucker suit and white buckskin shoes—were everyday Charleston attire. At least among the gentry.
    â€œAh, Mrs. Washburn, I presume.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    He moved quickly to shake my hand. “Please, come into my office. I think I can find you a chair. Mrs. Dillsworth,” he added, “please hold all my calls.”
    I thought I saw the receptionist wink just before I was ushered into the inner sanctum. She could have been winking at either of us. It didn’t matter; I’ve had experience dealing with smarmy men. That’s why I carry pepper spray in my purse.
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    But Mr. Hammerhead proved to be a