Smith took his shitty mood in stride. “I talked with a woman at the front desk and she let it slip that one of the other bridesmaids—an Angie Stewart—is coming in at one this afternoon. Angie is also a coworker with Marjorie. I can interview her and get additional personal information, sir.”
He was intrigued. “Interview her? How?”
“By lying, sir.” This time, Smith sounded mischievous. “A fake interview. If that’s all right with you.”
“It is. Report back. And good job.” He added the last gruffly, making a mental note to give her a bonus on her next check. Funny how he had three assistants and only one was worth a damn. He clicked the headset off and returned to work. He had meetings to attend and his email piled up faster than he could answer it, but work let him stay busy through the day, and at least the hotel room was comfortable. The weather was gorgeous, but he’d be damned if he’d work down at the beach again. Fucking beach and fucking riptides. He shuddered at the memory.
Lost in work, Rob was surprised to hear a knock at the door precisely at two in the afternoon. His stomach growled—he’d missed lunch, as usual—but he ignored his body and answered the door.
Smith stood there in her gray power suit, glasses perched on her nose and her hair pulled back into a nondescript bun. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, and held out a small electronic device to him.
“What’s this?” He took it and examined it. Looked like a recorder of some kind.
“I interviewed Ms. Stewart and thought you would want to hear the conversation for yourself. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Smart. He rubbed his jaw. “Tell those other chuckleheads that I need lunch. You can have the rest of the day off.”
She inclined her head ever so slightly. “Thank you.”
He shut the door and pressed Play on the recorder. Two women’s voices arose in conversation. It was illegal to tape someone without their knowing, but he wondered if Smith knew or cared. Didn’t matter, really.
“So what’s this for again?” The woman speaking was clearly a smoker, and older. Her voice had a hint of rasp to it that he recognized well. He could practically smell the menthol on her.
Smith’s efficient voice cut through the recording. “A surprise slam book that was commissioned for the bride. We’re interviewing the wedding party and asking them to tell a little bit about each other.”
“I can’t tell you much about anyone except Brontë and Marjorie. I don’t know the others.”
“That’s fine,” Smith soothed. “Let’s start with them. Tell me about Marjorie.”
He tensed, listening.
The woman laughed, and Rob immediately got offended. Was she laughing at his Marjorie? That fucking bitch. But her next words eased his mind a little. “I love Marjorie. How can you not? Hating her would be like hating puppies or flowers or something. She’s a sweet kid.”
Rob relaxed and moved back to his chair, listening as the interview went on.
“Have you worked with Marjorie long?”
“A few years. She’s a favorite with a lot of the customers.” Another laugh. “Pretty much anyone over the age of eighty. They all adore her. I guess she’s the grandkid they never had or something. She has a lot of regulars and I’m pretty sure they’re all geriatric, but Marj remembers all their names and their birthdays and makes them feel special. You can tell when some people are bullshitting, and she’s not. She genuinely loves older people.”
Rob mentally noted that. All right, his Marjorie enjoyed the company of the elderly. Not a bad thing, really, but he couldn’t recall the last conversation he’d had with anyone over the age of sixty. Huh. Clearly he had a crowd different from hers.
It seemed that once Angie was started on the subject of Marjorie, she didn’t stop. “Yeah, that girl’s kind of an odd one. I mean, I don’t say that in a bad way. It’s just that . . . like, okay, she goes to knitting circles and antique shows. She quilts. I mean, who fucking quilts nowadays? Marjorie, that’s who. I don’t think she has hobbies like normal girls her age. She’s not into clubbing or sleeping around—she does crosswords and volunteers at a nursing home.”
“She’s an old lady trapped in a young lady’s body?” Smith supplied helpfully.
“That’s exactly it,” Angie said. “An old lady. I mean, like I said, you can’t help but love her. Sweet kid. Built like a stork, but sweet. And it’s easy to see that she’s lonely.”
“Lonely?” Smith asked in a mild voice.
“Yeah. I think she was raised by her grandparents, right? So she’s never exactly ‘blended’ with normal kids. Add in the height and I’m guessing it does a number on her self-confidence. Like I said, she doesn’t have any friends—other than the diner ladies—under the age of eighty. And she sure doesn’t date.”
“No?”
“Nope. If I bet money, she’d be a virgin for sure. I’d say the girl’s never seen a dick before, but what do I know?”
They both laughed, and Rob clenched the recorder in his hand. If he ever saw this Angie person, he was going to personally take her down a damn peg.
“Now let me tell you about Brontë,” Angie continued. “You want to know someone that’s lucky as hell? It’s her. She’s marrying a billionaire, you know.”
He fast-forwarded through the rest of the conversation, but it seemed to be about Brontë and not Marjorie. Disgusted, he tossed the recorder aside and drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking.