Statue of Limitations Read Online Free Page B

perfect gentleman. He listened attentively to everything I said, and even jotted down notes. I haven’t been taken that seriously by a man since my courtship days with Greg.
    â€œThat about covers it,” I said, reluctantly ending my spiel.
    â€œYes, I’ll handle her case,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation.
    â€œThat’s wonderful. Forgive me for being blunt, but what do you charge? Per hour, I mean.”
    He glanced at a wall calendar of Charleston. Perhaps he had seasonal rates.
    â€œThree hundred.”
    I couldn’t help but gasp. “An hour ?”
    He looked at the opposing wall. “Well, that’s my usual rate. Is Mrs. Crawford indigent?”
    â€œNot exactly, but she is indignant. Anyway, I plan to cover her expenses.”
    â€œI see. And where are you employed, Mrs. Washburn?”
    â€œI own the Den of Antiquity on King Street. It’s an antique store.”
    â€œTell you what, I’ll give you my special new customer discount, which is one-third off.”
    â€œTwo hundred?”
    He looked at me. “On top of that you’ll get another fifty percent off if you’ll agree to do some of the legwork. You see, I’m a little short on staff at the moment.”
    â€œWhat sort of legwork?” I hoped that wasn’t a come-on.
    â€œI seem to remember reading in the paper recently that this inn is now open for business. Am I correct?”
    â€œYes. La Parterre—that’s French for little garden—has already received a rave review in the Post and Courier. ” There was no need to remind him that it was the landscaping for which the reviewer couldn’t seem to find enough praise. My rooms, on the other hand, were merely referred to as pleasant.
    â€œWell then, perhaps you could speak with some of the current guests. See what, if anything, they might have seen or heard. But”—he raised a recently manicured hand, which was surely an extravagance, given his apparent lack of business—“if you encounter the police, leave as discreetly as possible. This is all on the QT.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œNow, if you’ll excuse, I’m going straight over to interview Mrs. Crawford.”
    I stood. “Thank you so much, Mr. Hammerhead.”
    He stood as well. “Thank you , Mrs. Washburn.”
    I turned to go just as he was clearing his throat.
    â€œMrs. Washburn?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI hope you don’t find this too forward of me, but you have very nice hair.”
    My hair is short, and until recent years a deep chestnut brown. It’s nothing too special by any means, but it is mine, and I plan to keep it that way. I was out of that office quicker than double-geared lightning.
    Â 
    I drove straight to my shop, which, although on King Street, is in another rent district altogether. Before I did any snooping, I needed to touch base in person with C.J., my assistant. The girl has a 160 IQ and is a crackerjack businesswoman, but somehow still manages to be one variety short of a three-bean salad. Born and raised in Shelby, North Carolina (trust me, I have nothing against that fair city), she spins stories that make the Paul Bunyan tales seem like unassuming collections of facts.
    â€œAbby,” she practically shouted when she saw me enter, “the most incredible thing just happened.”
    â€œHere, or in Shelby?”
    â€œHere, of course.”
    Experience has taught me that humoring the big gal can pay off in spades. Or not.
    â€œDo tell,” I said cautiously.
    â€œSee that William and Mary walnut highboy over there?”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œI made it move—by telekinesis.”
    â€œThat’s nice, dear.”
    â€œAbby, you don’t believe me, do you?”
    â€œI didn’t say that. It’s just that something else very important happened—”
    â€œWatch!” C.J. is over a foot taller than me, and