threw you out, what makes you think you’ll have another chance?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
A smile brightened Layne’s face and she hopped down from the bar stool. A moment later she slid a copy of the Babbitt across the counter—it was open to the “Local Doings” section of the weekly publication. New Director of the Eisley Foundation to Attend Mayor’s Charity Gala read the headline of the top article.
“The gala is tomorrow,” Layne explained.
“How is that going to help?”
“Easy, I’m going, too. We always get two tickets to these events at the Babbitt. Naturally the social reporter gets one, but nobody wanted the other, so I grabbed it. Want to go with me? It admits two people.”
Dee didn’t hold with formal mourning periods where women wore widow’s weeds and did nothing but charity work for years, but that didn’t mean she felt like going to a party, especially something like the mayor’s gala.
“Can’t you go with someone else from the magazine?”
“I guess. Noah Wilkie is assigned to cover the event, only his wife is pregnant and the smell of food is making her gag. He suggested I go with him when he found out I was interested. Christine thinks it’s a great idea—she doesn’t want Noah attending with just anyone.” Layne put a finger on the magazine and drew it back toward her. “I’d never hit on a married man, but what does it mean if other women think their husbands are absolutely safe around you? Christine would never be okay with Noah going to a gala with one of my sisters and they wouldn’t run after a married guy, either.”
Dorothy regarded her niece with affectionate sympathy. Layne was lovely, but she’d grown up in the shadow of two strikingly beautiful sisters with classic figures and innate feminine allure. The rest of the family was tall, Layne was small and petite. At best she wore a B-cup bra, and she was direct, rather than flirtatious.
“It means you’re special,” Dorothy assured. “And you have real friends. I remember you getting a present for someone named Christine before you’d even met her.”
“That was for their new kitten. The Wilkies have never had pets and didn’t have any toys or other supplies.”
“You mentioned Christine was pregnant. What have you gotten for the new baby?”
“Oh, I found a terrific set of...” Layne stopped and looked puzzled. “How did you know I’d gotten her something?”
“Because I know you. Now, tell me why Noah wants someone to attend the charity gala with him.”
“He feels it appears less threatening to bigwigs if a social reporter comes with a date.”
“‘Social’ reporter?” Dorothy restrained a laugh. “Is that another name for gossip columnist?”
Layne chuckled. “More or less. Noah is the worst gossip I know. Anyhow, I’d much rather go to the gala with you, especially since I don’t want anyone at the Babbitt knowing about this. Come on, Aunt Dee, we wouldn’t have to stay for long. And even if Matt Hollister won’t talk to me, he might talk to you.”
“All right, I’m convinced. What’s your plan?”
“We’ll quietly approach Mr. Hollister and try to get him to agree to another meeting in a less public place.”
Dorothy ate a bite of salad. “What if he won’t?”
“Then I’ll think of something else. Don’t worry—besides the stuff in the office, there are public records and other places to search. You gave me the names of the employees you could remember and I’ll interview them if needed. And maybe there’s a way to get the rest of the names, even if Mr. Davidson won’t cooperate.”
“They may not talk to you, either.”
“I’ll figure it out. I just wish I knew more about how the embezzling happened.”
Dorothy nibbled a bite of dinner roll.
The sensation of Will being in the house was even stronger than before, sometimes she even smelled the shampoo he’d used and his pipe tobacco, or heard the low murmur of his voice. Or maybe it was just her imagination and a guilty conscience because she hadn’t cleared his name and it was the only thing left she could do for him.
She just hoped Layne could find the answer soon.
CHAPTER THREE
ON SATURDAY EVENING Layne smoothed the front of her dress as she regarded herself in the mirror. Her aunt had just finished doing her hair for her, twisting both sides and fastening it with enameled combs that matched the green silk of Layne’s evening dress.
Still peering at her reflection, Layne turned sideways and sighed. Thin ribbon straps crisscrossed over her shoulders, holding her dress up, and the thing sort of swirled to her waist, and then to her feet. But nothing, not even a clever bra, could give her a respectable silhouette.
“I didn’t want to buy something new that I’d never use again, but I don’t want to be a laughingstock. Do you really think no one will guess this started life as a bridesmaid’s dress?” she asked her aunt.
“Honestly, it’s fine without the cape over the shoulders,” Aunt Dee replied. “And naturally that bow had to go.”
“Yeah, that looked stupid on me. I’ll never forgive Carla for making me wear it. You’d think she’d be nicer to her own cousin.”
She twisted, trying to see the back of the dress. Aunt Dee had removed the girlish bow and created a slim belt to cover any evidence of its removal, saying it would make the “lines” of the gown more classic. Since her aunt was an artist with exquisite taste, Layne would have to take her word for it. She didn’t object to wearing pretty clothes every now and then, but too much froufrou made her resemble an over-decorated birthday cake.
Leaning forward, she checked the light makeup her aunt had applied—just a few touches to her lashes and eyelids, along with lipstick. “And you’re sure I don’t need any other makeup?”
“Not with your complexion.”
Layne collected the matching purse that came with the dress. “Then we’d better get going. I’ll never look as good as you, anyway.”
“Nonsense. You’re lovely.” Her aunt smoothed a hand over her midnight velvet gown. It was high at the neck, with crisscross straps down the back that made it look classily provocative. “I haven’t worn an evening gown in ages.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
They walked out to the car and Layne patted the roof of her classic 1966 Mustang. Much to her parents’ displeasure, her aunt and uncle had given it to her as a high school graduation present. The light turquoise color wasn’t original, but it suited Layne. The Mustang had been Uncle Will’s first car and they’d carefully restored it for her, including the installation of the latest modern seat belts with shoulder straps—they’d been indulgent, not reckless.
She drove downtown to the fancy hotel where the gala was being held. Inside
