see. No, I don’t. That would explain the files, books and calculator. Possibly the newspaper, candy wrappers and empty soda cans, too, if we allow for a degree of slobbiness. But not the Slinky, the Rubik’s Cube or the empty mayonnaise jar.”
“Those are for stakeouts. They can get pretty boring.”
Okay, so the toys were just toys. She wouldn’t ask about the handcuffs. “What do you do with the jar?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
He flashed her a grin. “Emergency urinal.”
Oh. It didn’t look used…. Hastily she mentioned traffic. Traffic was the Boston equivalent of talking about the weather. Often it segued into a discussion of the Big Dig. Would the underground highway ever be finished? Was it an enormous boondoggle or an engineering feat to rival the Great Pyramids?
“Traffic sucks,” he said. “Why were you the appointed family member to deal with me? You aren’t connected to Baronessa, except by dividend checks. Seems like someone like, say, your cousin the corporate president would swing a bigger stick.”
“I believe the size of my stick was sufficient to get me into your car this morning. Who do you want to see at headquarters? My cousin the corporate president?”
“Him, yes. Also your cousin, Gina.”
“Why?”
“I’m looking into the tampering that occurred last Valentine’s Day, too. It was almost certainly the same person. Gina ran that show. I’ll need to talk to your brother Derrick, as well.”
“Why Derrick?”
He gave her a sardonic look. “He’s in charge of quality control. Seems like having your new flavor tampered with was a pretty major failure in his department. And his office was at the plant, before it burned.”
Yes, it was. He’d complained about that often enough. Derrick was ever watchful for a slight, worried that his cousins were achieving more than him, getting more perks, more recognition.
Claudia chewed on her lip. Derrick had been especially difficult ever since the fiasco at the gala held to promote the newest Baronessa flavor—which had now been scrapped. Someone had adulterated the passion fruit gelato with habanero pepper juice. If that hadn’t been bad enough, one of the guests had suffered an allergic reaction and had to be rushed to the hospital. Derrick seemed to think the whole thing was a personal attack on his effectiveness.
“You can get me in to speak with these people, right?”
“Oh, sure.” She flapped a hand in a vague affirmative. The traffic was living up to his pithy description, creeping along at a snail’s pace. At this rate she’d be trapped in this car with him for another twenty minutes. Claudia resolved not to look at him too often. “You have any ideas about the culprit yet?”
“Yeah.” He slid her a look out of those sneaky, two-toned eyes. “It’s someone who’s real unhappy with you Barones.”
Claudia unbuttoned her coat, wondering again who had hired this man. “You think it’s personal, rather than a business competitor who has lost his sense of proportion?”
“I’m not ruling out the possibility of a competitor. There’s Snowcream, Inc. And there’s Anderson Enterprises. Baronessa has taken over several of their markets in the last two years.”
Uh-oh. Did he know about Drake? She studied him warily. Yes. Too much of a coincidence for him to mention Anderson otherwise. Of course, he couldn’t know everything. Just the more public portions of what had turned out to be an all-too-public romantic debacle.
“Anderson sells a good deal more than ice cream, Mr. Mallory. Baronessa only sells gelato. We might irritate them, but we only compete with one corner of their business. Arson isn’t a reasonable response to a small dip in the profit column.”
“Business rivalries can escalate beyond the reasonable when there’s a personal element involved. And from what I hear, you and the Anderson son and heir were involved very personally.” He shook his head. “No accounting for taste, I guess, but just what did you see in that pin-striped piranha? Aside from the teeth and great suits, that is.”
It sounded as if he’d met Drake. Emotions rose like a swarm of gnats, putting a tug on Claudia’s lips that was part annoyance, part amusement. If worse came to worst, she wouldn’t have to fight her way past any illusions created by Ethan Mallory’s sartorial brilliance, would she? Maybe she could actually have the quick, hot affair her body was urging….
Bad idea. Really bad. “Tell me, do you actually have a client? Someone who’s hired you, that is. It occurred to me you might be doing a favor for an old friend.”
He lifted one eyebrow. They were very nice eyebrows, darker than his hair, like his eyelashes, and with a pleasant arch. Expressive eyebrows for such a tough face. “So you know about Bianca and me.”
“Well, of course. Though Bianca took her maiden name back after the divorce, so I didn’t place your name right away. It’s been a few years, hasn’t it? Not that I mistake gossip—” she fluttered a hand as if fanning away the chaff “—for reality. Was your parting amicable?”
“Now, why would you think that was any of your business?”
“I’d like to determine where your biases lie. And your loyalties. I could easily imagine that Sal Conti played some part in the breakup of your marriage, for example, leaving you with the burning desire to embarrass or hurt him in return. But you might have remained fond of your ex, and be determined to clear her family.”
“You go right ahead and speculate, honey. I know how fascinated some women are by other people’s love lives.”
“Well, honey, while I’m enjoying my speculations, you can circle the block. You just passed the Baronessa building.”
Ethan didn’t actually have to circle the block, since the parking garage that served the building had an entrance on the nearest cross street. Claudia directed him to the portion reserved for visitors. She didn’t say a word about his having almost passed his target. She didn’t have to. Her smirk said it all.
As soon as he cut the engine, she jumped out. That didn’t surprise him. This wasn’t a woman to sit around waiting on a man, or anyone or anything else. He bet she’d skipped learning to walk in favor of hitting the ground running, and hadn’t stopped since.
He hit the button that locked his car. She was standing on the other side, tapping one foot impatiently, her hands thrust in the pockets of that absurdly bright coat that looked like a double dip of sky.
“So tell me,” he said companionably, “is it true you dumped a whole carton of melted ice cream on Drake Anderson’s head in front of the power-suit crowd at the Radius?”
She flicked him an annoyed glance. “It was only slightly melted.”
“Pretty stupid of him to have shot off his mouth that way, where you could overhear him.”
“Drake has a problem knowing when to keep his mouth shut. It’s a common failing.” The disdain
