V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“Good. Perfect. She did offend me. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You should have told me she controlled the purse strings. I had no idea.”

“Stop. You know better. Every expenditure gets funneled through her and then through me before it goes on to the accountant’s office. With seventeen attorneys in the firm, it’s the only way I can keep track. She doesn’t say yea or nay to anyone without checking with me first. That’s just a fact.”

“Fine.”

“There’s no reason for you to get all prickly about it. She’s doing her job.”

“I don’t want to discuss it.”

“That’s unlike you. You’re usually hell-bent on talking everything to death.”

“Why are you acting so put-upon? It’s a goddamn dinner dance in L.A. It’s not the White House.”

“I told you twice.”

“No. You did not. You’re bringing it up now because you’re hoping to deflect the issue.”

“What issue?” he said.

“I don’t see why I should have to justify myself to her.”

“You didn’t offer an explanation. You told her to cut you a check. Is it too much to ask what you have in mind? Believe it or not, an eight-thousand-dollar check isn’t trivial.”

“I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“And why is that?”

“Six months ago, I wanted to buy shares of IBM. You pooh-poohed the idea and the stock jumped sixteen points in two days. If I’d had access to even a modest sum of money, I could have cleaned up.”

“And two days later, it tanked. You’d have lost it all.”

“I’d have sold before the price dropped and then bought it again at the new low. I’m not stupid about these things, whatever you might think.”

“What’s this really about? Clearly, you’ve got your nose out of joint.”

“I wanted the eight thousand dollars to buy shares of GE. Now it’s too late. By the time the market closed on Friday, the stock had jumped from 82 to 106.”

“Eight grand? What good would that have done?”

“That’s irrelevant. I shouldn’t have to beg.”

“There’s no point in throwing a tantrum about good business practice. You want money, I’ll set up an account for you.”

“You’ll open an account for me, like you’re my father?”

Channing’s sigh was accompanied by a rolling of his eyes. High theater for him. He lowered his head, shaking it with resignation. The window slid up. He put the car in reverse and backed across the courtyard until he had the necessary clearance to pull out, which he did with a testy chirp of his tires.

The next thing she knew he was gone.

She returned to the house and closed the door behind her. It wasn’t the first time they’d clashed and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The emotional uproar would fade and cooler heads would prevail, but she wasn’t going to drop the matter. For the most part, they were capable of settling their differences, but she’d learned to avoid negotiations when one or the other of them was in high dudgeon.

She went into the kitchen and cleared the counter of stray martini glasses, which she placed in the machine. She loved having the house to herself again. Monday morning, Mrs. Stumbo would do a thorough cleaning, changing sheets, doing four loads of laundry, and generally restoring order. For now, Nora was free to enjoy the quiet. Briefly, she checked the guest room with its spacious adjoining bath, making sure the Lows hadn’t overlooked personal items. Nora didn’t like other people’s stray shampoo bottles accumulating in the shower, and there was always the chance someone had forgotten the odd piece of jewelry or a garment hanging in the closet. Meredith had left a copy of Los Angeles Magazine on the bed table.

Nora scooped it up, intending to toss it into the trash. Instead she took it with her to the kitchen, where she made herself a cup of tea. She carried both teacup and magazine to the sunroom and sank into an upholstered chair. She put her feet up on the ottoman, grateful for the rare moment of relaxation. She leafed through glossy pages, checking the advertisements for shops on Rodeo Drive, expensive salons, art galleries, and boutique clothing stores. There was a six-page spread on the mansion of the month, some overblown though tastefully done palace built by one of the hot new movie producers. She also read the feature-length profile on an actress she’d met and disliked, taking a wicked satisfaction in the journalist’s acid observations. What was meant to be a puff piece was devastatingly snide and unkind.