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Midnight Cravings

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2018
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She swallowed hard. “I’d appreciate whatever you can do.”

He smiled. “That’s more like it. Around here we take things more slowly.”

“I fully appreciate that you do things differently around here,” she said, her voice tight. She was off to a terrible start this weekend. “But I’m only here for four days and I don’t have the luxury of taking things slowly.”

She thought again of the missing envelope, with the letter about Beatrice. It wasn’t as if she could call the editor, tell her the letter had been lost and ask if she could send another copy. Beatrice’s publisher was a major client of Page-turner Promotions and Josie absolutely couldn’t afford to risk alienating the publisher, for fear that they would drop her company altogether. And that the company, in turn, would drop her.

On top of that, Josie thought with horror, what if the confidential information was sensitive in the sense that the public shouldn’t get wind of it? Beatrice was the celebrity author of the moment, and a lot of journalists were trying to tear her down. On top of that, thanks to the theme of her cookbook, Beatrice had come under the feminists’ wrath, so that was another whole group looking for ammo against her.

But Josie couldn’t let Dan Duvall know all of that. Who knew what motivated him? “Look,” she said, “I really need some of the papers that were stolen. For work. They’re not of interest to anyone else, but if you find anything that looks like it could be relevant, you would save me an awful lot of hassle.”

He shrugged. His shoulders were really quite broad under the thin cotton of his shirt. If he wanted to catch criminals, he probably could, bare-handed. “You got it. Well, it was nice meeting you, Miss Ross.”

“Ms.,” she corrected automatically, then immediately regretted it.

“Ms.,” he amended, showing the almost-dimple.

“My apologies.” He was dismissing her, there was no doubt about it.

She hesitated. Dismissive or not, he was obviously trying. He didn’t know how important those stolen papers were to her. “I’m sorry about the desk. And—” she gestured “—Deputy Pfeiffer back there. Although, as I said, I wouldn’t have let him out.”

A little warmth came into his eyes and they crinkled at the corners. He was a great-looking man. In fact, he would be a deadly combination for some women. “It’s like I always say, you city folks are just too trusting.”

“We are, huh?” She couldn’t help but smile, albeit reluctantly.

Incredibly, he smiled back. “Oh, yeah.”

A tremor coursed through Josie.

Suddenly there was a loud ruckus at the door. A man who looked like a thin, wiry version of Dan Duvall was led in, apparently against his will, by two older gentlemen.

“I didn’t know it was a wig!” the dark-haired man was protesting loudly.

Dan sighed. “Excuse me,” he said to Josie, and got up from his desk.

Although she was curious about what was going on, the office was so small that there was no way she could stand by unobtrusively and watch. “Please call me at the inn when you’ve found my things,” she said. “I’m in room 508.”

“I know where you are.”

Josie watched as he strode across the room. He moved well, she noticed. Not many men could look graceful and masculine at the same time. It was hard to take her eyes off of him, but she managed, then left.

Dan Duvall did have his hands full, Josie had to admit. Maybe she should have been more patient with him. How many thousands of times had her mother repeated the cliché about catching flies with honey instead of vinegar?

She also had Beatrice to consider. It wouldn’t be good for Beatrice’s public image to have her publicist arguing with the chief of police.

Which reminded her, Beatrice must surely have made it to the Silver Moon Inn by now. It was after seven o’clock.

She hurried back through the town, barely noticing the many picture-postcard scenes, to the inn. After a ten-minute search of the lobby and upstairs rooms, Josie feared that Beatrice not only wasn’t there, but she might not be coming at all.

No sooner did she have the thought than the front doors banged open. A round elderly woman, with gray curls atop her apple-cheeked visage, made her way in, using a knotted cane for support. Behind her was a young woman, with lank dark hair and a figure like a toothpick, holding a baby.

It was Beatrice. It had to be. Josie let out a long pent-up breath and thanked God that things were finally going to get back on track.

Her thanks went out just a moment too soon.

“Get the hell out of my way, boy, I don’t need your damn help!”

Josie stopped short and watched in open-mouthed horror as Beatrice Beaujold whacked the bellboy in the shins with her cane.

That’s not Beatrice, Josie thought as the woman raised her cane again and thumped it against the hapless bellboy’s leg. That can’t be her.

But it was her, all right. Josie recognized her from her publicity photos.

Something must have happened that Josie didn’t see, something to justify Beatrice’s outburst. Maybe the bellboy had touched her accidentally, she reasoned. And Beatrice thought he was being fresh.

Josie didn’t quite believe it, but no better explanation was coming to her. There had to be a good reason for what must surely be a rare outburst. Beatrice Beaujold was kind, a grandmother figure, the sort of wise older woman people went to for advice. That was the image her colleagues at Page-turner Promotions had projected for her.

Obviously, she’d just been caught at a bad moment. Josie would have a delicate word with her about publicity and how important it was to maintain a good public image.

She steeled herself and crossed the lobby to where the older woman was still creating a commotion.

“Ms. Beaujold?” Josie said as she drew near.

“Who’s that?” Beatrice snapped, squinting behind thick round glasses.

Josie extended her hand. “I’m Josie Ross, from Page-turner Promotions. We spoke on the phone.”

“Oh, yeah?” Beatrice looked Josie up and down, as if she were assessing a prize on Let’s Make a Deal.

From the look on her face, Josie expected her to either bid a dollar or ask for the goat behind door number three.

“That all you’re wearing?” Beatrice asked.

“W-what?” Josie stammered, putting a hand to her sleeveless silk blouse. “What I’m wearing?”

“Hardly decent.” Beatrice sniffed and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Go cover yourself, girlie. No one needs to see all that bare flesh.”

Josie glanced at her knee-length skirt and sleeveless white blouse, which she was evidently going to be wearing all weekend unless she could find a decent clothing store, and wondered what Beatrice was seeing that she was not. “I’m sorry, I don’t under—”

“A little modesty never hurt,” Beatrice declared.

There was no answer to that. Josie decided her best bet was to change the subject. “Well. Is this your niece, Ms. Beaujold?” she asked, smiling at the girl with the baby.

Beatrice shot a glance at the young woman with the baby. “Yes. Cher, introduce yourself proper, girl.”

The girl lurched to attention, as much as her stick figure and the chubby baby in her arms would allow. “I’m Cher,” she said dully.

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Baby’s Britney, if you can believe that. My brother’s kin.” She widened her eyes, shook her head and all but cranked her index finger in a circle at her temple.
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