“I don’t have my calendar with me, but you can stop by the office at ten and I’ll try to work you in,” she answered.
She didn’t want to talk to him anymore. She’d told him everything she knew. Her mother and a dozen people in the office had told him that she was there all day. There was no more to say, and she did not like the way that his sexy grin affected her.
“I’ve got a couple more stops to make, so I’d rather be there at nine,” he said.
“Can’t do it. It’s ten or it’ll have to wait until Tuesday or Wednesday,” she told him. She could rearrange her schedule, but Detective Waylon was not going to call the shots.
“Then I’ll be there promptly at ten,” he said.
“You could ask me whatever you want to know right now and save a trip.”
“I do not do interviews on the phone.” Without a good-bye, have a nice day, or kiss my butt, he was gone.
She tossed the phone onto the sofa and headed up the stairs to change from her cute little peach suit and high heels into something more comfortable. She had nothing to hide, so the detective could interview her every day for the next year, but by damn, he would do it on her terms. If he thought he could just pop into her business any old time, then he’d better bring a sandwich and a cup of coffee, because he might spend a lot of time in the waiting room.
With her Sunday outfit hung up and her shoes put back in the right box, she flopped back on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Maybe she wouldn’t sell the cabin. If it didn’t harbor bad memories when she went up there to take care of all the legal matters, she might just keep the thing. It was big enough, with three bedrooms, to use as a weekend company getaway. The lake provided fishing and swimming. She could envision a spreadsheet where employees could write in days for either weeklong or weekend vacation time. That way the place could be a company tax write-off.
Cold air from the ceiling vent chilled her body, so she swung her legs off the side of the bed and slipped into a pair of pajama pants. Pulling a chambray shirt on over a tank top, she made her way back down the stairs, picked up her phone, and carried it outside to sit beside the pool.
“I hate you, Conrad Steele.” She threw her hand over her eyes to block the setting sun. “You could have waited another year to get killed. Mother is retiring in December, and I’m up to my eyeballs in work. I don’t have time for this crap right now.”
Her phone rang, and she was careful to check before she answered this time. If it was the detective again, she planned to let it go to voice mail.
“Hello, Mother,” she said.
“I think you should take some time off,” Teresa said. “No one at the firm knows about the situation, but the news will break, and when it does . . .” She let the sentence hang.
“I’m going to be a big black spot on the company’s immaculate reputation, right?”
“Something like that.”
Kate counted to ten. “I’m not running away. That makes me look guilty.”
“It’s only taking part of the three months’ worth of vacation time you’ve got built up. It’s not running,” Teresa argued.
If she’d asked for a long weekend a month ago, Teresa would have gone up in flames higher than a Texas wildfire. But now that it was to do with the business, everything had changed quicker than the blink of an eye. Kate wasn’t going anywhere.
“You are retiring. I’m trying to get things lined up to step into your office. I can’t take time off.”
“Yes, you can.” When Teresa got an idea, she went at it like a hound dog chasing a coyote. “If we get into a bind, you can work from wherever you are. Go to that cabin and take care of the business involved with that so you’ll be finished with everything outside of the company when I’m gone. You can work from the computer if we have a problem. And if something really serious happens, you can be here in less than three hours.”
“I told you”—Kate smiled at how slickly those words came from her mouth—“that I’m fine. This whole thing was over years ago.”
“If you don’t take some time now, you will be too busy after I’m gone to get away. Don’t argue with me. Come into the office tomorrow, spend the week getting things lined up, and then go,” Teresa said.
“But . . .” At forty-four years old, she didn’t need someone to tell her what to do. But then she was also amazed. Her mother had never suggested that she take even a few days off. Was Teresa Truman, president of the Truman Oil Company, getting soft in her old age?
No, Teresa would be hardheaded and -hearted until the day that they crossed her arms over her chest in a coffin. This had nothing to do with Kate’s emotional well-being and everything to do with company image.
“I’ve been running this company since I was thirty years old. The one thing I regret is not taking vacations,” Teresa said. “If it did not involve business, I didn’t see the need for it. Don’t get to be seventy years old with regrets, like I’m doing now.”