Obstacle Course
A Finny Aletter Mystery
Book Two
by
Yvonne Montgomery
Published by ePublishing Works!
www.epublishingworks.com
ISBN: 978-1-61417-426-4
By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.
Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
Copyright © 1990, 2013 by Yvonne Montgomery. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Mystery, Woman Sleuth, Amateur Sleuth, Lawrence Block, Murder, Stockbroker
Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com
Thank You.
For Betsy Cox and Pat Doi:
a memorial to the paths through the forest.
Chapter 1
The food on the table was enough to feed a small, starving nation, not that the faceless in extremis would have been able to digest it. Escargots embrouilles and truffles and Gruyere required systems hardened through long practice: only the jaded need apply.
Finny Aletter let her fingers do the grazing through the morsels tenderly nested in artifice. The mallard hewn in ice was laden with melon balls big enough to serve over a net. Radish roses and botanically impossible blossoms carved from celery stalks and carrot sticks bloomed among bacon-wrapped water chestnuts and cheese teased into shapes no cheese was ever meant to be. Nuggets of fruit and pink morsels of shrimp had been stabbed artistically onto stainless-steel skewers with rosewood handles.
"Who does your nails?"
Finny glanced from her carpentry-branded hands to the source of the light, insolent voice. A young woman, frizzily blonde, met her eyes with a don't-give-a-damn expression. Malice was at least as responsible as Estee Lauder for whatever life her features held.
"Black & Decker," Finny said.
"Is that the new place in Cherry Creek? Hope you didn't leave a tip." Boredom won out over malice and the blonde slinked her way back into the social sediment, her strapless black cocktail gown a moving challenge to several laws of God and physics.
One of those laws, thought Finny, was that somebody would always show up to zero in on insecurities like a shark scenting blood. She'd always valued competence over beauty—a safe bet since she boasted only moderate stature; short, black hair instead of the long, pampered blonde stuff; and features eliciting tributes such as "animated" and "attractive." She'd known she was underdressed as soon as she walked in the door. The promised casual gathering had been translated into an understated fashion parade. The swimming pool shimmering through gauzy drapes over the patio doors seemed as distant as the tropical sea it had been designed to evoke, as unapproachable as the sleek, satisfied "natives."
"Who the hell was that?" Chris Barelli was tall, dark, and conservative in his pale gray suit, snowy white shirt, and striped tie. His venture to the bar had left him unmarked, his thick black hair falling over his forehead, his strong features impenetrable, his large hands steady with their burden of brimming wineglasses. The eyes that noticed everything had darkened with scientific interest at the amount of torque in the blonde's hips.
"There wasn't time to exchange names before she opened fire." It had been a while since she'd been offered entree into Denver's hallowed halls of society. The invitations she'd come to expect as an up-and-coming stockbroker dried up after her involvement in a murder investigation the year before. The same people who would kill for a mention in the society columns underwent immediate profile surgery when another's name cropped up on the police blotter.
Finny sipped her drink and surveyed the living room of the house sometimes called "Tara on a half lot." It had the proportions of a basketball court but smelled much better. The cafe au lait walls were as adorned with paintings and etchings as a bourgeoisie with jewelry for a meeting with the queen: too much was never enough.
Wide walkways of bank lobby marble edged steps descending on all four sides to the central area of the room. Thick, butter yellow carpet stretched like redemption across the aptly named conversation pit, under soft sculpture furniture and hard-edged people. The individual chatter was carefully modulated but the aggregate effect had Excedrin written all over it. Any lull in the roar was filled by the anemic offerings of a wilted string quartet in a corner at the far end of the room.
Finny recognized a number of the people in the crowd. The three-piece suits who had staked out the organically shaped love seat near the string quartet had been clients: one a banker, the other of the nouveau entrepreneurial class. Nearby, a nervous man sandwiched between two women, all brokers in competing firms, were wielding their smiles as shields, their ears alert to the nuances of the insider tidbits sprinkled throughout the conversation like spices in ragout. Their rapid consumption of alcohol attested to the strain of the concentration needed to determine the validity of what was said and, more important, what was not said. The schizophrenia of the Dow Jones had etched their faces like acid.
And to think, she hadn't wanted to be here this evening. She reached past Barelli for a fat scallop speared on a tutu-clad toothpick.
"Finny, darling!" Twee Garrett spoke in small, honeyed tones that lowered people's eyes in expectation of a short, rounded woman. Her Valkyrie height and linebacker presence came as a distinct surprise, especially when clad, as tonight, in the ruffles the voice implied.
"You're late, you naughty girl. Everyone's been here for at least an hour."
"Sorry," Finny said around the scallop in her mouth. "I had to wait for—"
"Never explain." Twee's vivid green gaze roamed over her. "You look smashing, as always. If there were any chance I could fit into that gorgeous raspberry silk, I'd rip it right off your back. Why wasn't I born a brunette?"
"This old thing?" Finny laughed lightly, glancing down at the polyester blend shirt belted casually over the matching circle skirt, both of which she'd snatched yesterday afternoon off a sale rack at Stein Mart.
Twee shook her bouffant, lavender-gray coif briskly. "You're supposed to be working the room, dearest, convincing these moneyed darlings they cannot live without your services." She flashed a strobe-brilliant smile at Barelli, who took a step back in self-defense. "Who is this enchanting man?"
"Twee, I'd like you to meet my friend Chris Barelli," Finny said. "This is our hostess, Chris, Twee Garrett."
Twee grasped Barelli's hand with long tapered fingers. "So nice to meet you at last," she burbled with genuine warmth. "You're Finny's very good friend, aren't you? The policeman?"
At Barelli's nod, the fretwork of lines at the corners of Twee's smile deepened. "You've been so good for this child. She was just drying up with those dreadful people at L and F. She was always much too creative to be satisfied with being a stockbroker, don't you agree?"
Th
e wariness on Barelli's face mellowed into a smile as he read her eyes, on a level with his own. "Absolutely," he began, stopping at the crash from across the room that cut through the haze of party gabble like a sword through satin.
"Oh, dear." Twee pressed Barelli's shoulder with a diamond-laden hand. "The new girl simply has no idea of how to balance a tray. Do excuse me, darlings, I'll be right back."
"Good lord," Barelli said as Twee surged away through the crush around the table.
"Yes." Finny drained her glass. "You see now why I had to come?"
"It was either that or hop a plane for Rio. Where in God's name did you meet her?"
"She was one of my clients, one of the first I ever had."
"And you left her to the barracudas at L and F?"
"She moved her account to Charton and Wells right after I left." Finny set her glass beside the others decorating the base of an anatomically correct but oddly arranged sculpture of a man, a woman, and a cape. "But she just about killed me when I quit L and F—said she'd never speak to me again."
Barelli glanced around Twee's version of the Roman circus. "But—"
"She's a very sweet woman. Now she's convinced it was all her idea."
"So she throws you a party—"
"—to get all of her friends to hire me," Finny finished for him. "Greasing the wheels of my success."
"More like the skids." Barelli's mouth tightened at another whinny of laughter from the mass below them. He didn't bother lowering his voice. "Do you think you're going to get anywhere with a bunch of chinless wonders like—"
"Excuse me."
The man who loomed next to her was more beautiful than most of the women in the room, Finny realized as her gaze was caught by deep blue eyes. Tan of skin, Slavic of cheekbones, sculpted of nose, he was perfection clad in an unstructured maize jacket over a flowing aqua shirt tucked into pleated oatmeal linen slacks that fit well enough to make any woman worth her salt dream of taking them off. If Tom Selleck ever saw this guy, his dimples would drop out, Finny mused, but she retained the presence of mind to look pointedly at his square, cleft chin and raise a brow at Barelli.
"You are Finny Aletter aren't you?" His smile rewarded her for being both female and attractive, hinting at unknown rewards lying in wait for an affirmative answer.
Finny nodded.
"I'm Kit Landauer. Twee asked me to come over here and tell you 'Faint heart never won renovation jobs.'" His broad shoulders moved in a desultory shrug and Finny struggled with an excess of esthetic appreciation. "Do you have any idea what she meant?"
"You're simpering," murmured Barelli in her ear.
Finny glared at him and pulled herself together. "I renovate old houses and Twee decided she wanted to, uh—"
"Sponsor you?" The interest in Landauer's eyes deepened. He tilted his head, his golden curls gleaming in the soft light of the candles on the table. "Interior design, huh? I'm in the business myself. What kind of things have you done?"
"I'm a carpenter," Finny said, pulling her gaze away from him at the nudge at her arm. "Uh, this is my friend Chris Barelli."
"Barelli." Landauer extended a sun-bronzed hand. The thick, burnished links of his gold ID bracelet shifted with the motion. "Haven't I seen you at the club?"
"Which club is that?"
"The Summit Club." The shades of disbelief in his rugged baritone suggested a crisis in understanding; there were other clubs?
"Not unless you've had a murder there recently." At his expression of blank confusion, Barelli took pity on him. "I'm a cop. Denver Homicide."
"Oh." Landauer's expression slid into neutral. "Then, of course, you wouldn't have been there."
Landauer turned to Finny, his perfect smile diminished. "So nice to have met you. Perhaps we'll see each other again sometime." He didn't wait for Finny to return his civilities, moving on with manly determination toward the bar.
Barelli watched his departure, shifting aside for a man intent upon the shrimp. He slanted a glance at Finny. "Didn't mean to slow you down, babe."
"I wasn't aware you had."
He looked down his straight nose at her, one brow lifted. "Wipe the saliva off your chin." He grinned as her hand moved reflexively toward her face.
Finny bared her teeth in a smile. "I'm not dead, Chris. I noticed you didn't resist ogling the blonde with the—"
"Breasts." The nearby angular woman in puce flashed him a glance and moved quickly past the melon balls.
"Among other things."
He nodded. "But I'm not hawking my wares, babe. A cool dude plus a sharp cookie—you could be home free with someone like Landauer backing your play."
"What play is that?"
"You could have any one of these bozos eating out of your hand. Bat the old eyelashes a little bit—"
"Wiggle my tush?" Finny raised a brow. "I'm into carpentry—the nobility of manual labor—not turning tricks. You been spending your off hours on the vice detail?"
"You're missing the point, babe. You want to make it with the big guys, you cut loose the excess baggage."
"You ain't heavy, you're my—well, you get my drift." Finny's gaze narrowed. "And what the hell is this 'sharp cookie' crap? You know I wasn't too thrilled about coming here tonight. So why get bent out of shape by some GQ-type?"
"Call it common sense on top of experience." Barelli's tone was dry. "If you're going to be class conscious, cops ain't got no—"
"Finny." Twee thundered back into the magic circle. "I simply won't allow you to stay here by the hors d'oeuvres while all these potential clients are milling around." Her hand closed on Finny's arm. "Come with me, darling." She pulled her away a few steps, then checked over her shoulder. "Aren't you coming with us, Lieutenant?"
Barelli's smile was infinitesimal. "I'm having such a good conversation with the hors d'oeuvres."
Twee threw him a roguish look, then dragged Finny into an animated forest of silk and linen, jersey and chiffon.
Finny had never felt so on display. Twee was as voluble as a carnival hawker as she towed her from group to group, pointing out her assets with relish, underscoring her move from stockbroker to carpenter, stressing her unique qualifications for translating the construction wishes of these "moneyed darlings," too long beset with learning-disabled lowlifes. As Finny followed Twee's black-and-silver ruffles from cluster to cluster of polite smiles and bored eyes, she wondered if perhaps her place in the carnival was the sideshow.
"Les Trethalwyn of the Denver Arts Consortium." Twee was identifying the stocky, bearded man who stood close to an enigmatic, willowy vision in burgundy silk.
He bent over Finny's extended hand and mimed a kiss above her knuckles. Several sandy curls fell over his damp brow. "A pleasure." There was a smooth purr of interest in his voice.
Hmmm. Finny turned as the introductions continued. "And this is my godchild, Paige Dexter." Twee's face shone with fierce pride. "She's got the most divine English garden and it's positively crying out for a gazebo."
Paige Dexter had broken off her conversation with Trethalwyn to listen to Twee. She now turned her smooth, brown head to look at Finny, her almond-shaped eyes opaque. As if counting with an internal rhythm, she waited until the small silence among them swelled to the point of discomfort, then allowed her thin lips to curve into what could pass for a smile.
"Another protégée, Twee?" she drawled. "Whatever happened to the landscape artist—Jose, wasn't it?" Her impenetrable eyes, in contrast to her slow speech, darted over Finny in rapid, precise assessment.
What a bundle this broad could make on "The Price is Right," Finny mused. Too bad she was wasted on the social circuit.
Not that she languished in obscurity. Everyone had heard of Paige Dexter, long-time patron saint of the Dare to Care Festival. Spending three dollars for every dollar raised, her group of ministering angels had recently adopted two uncharacteristically useful charities: fighting illiteracy and fostering animals abandoned in the Denver metropolitan area. Society
watchers of a more cynical bent yearned for a merging of the two efforts.
"I don't really know that I'm ready to consider the gazebo, Twee." Paige's smile acknowledged the deepening color in Twee's face, then gathered itself into a moue of mocking realization as her expressionless eyes encountered Finny's flat gaze. "Unless it's a question of survival. If you truly need the money...."
"Please," Finny said pleasantly. "No noblesse oblige: it's terrible for the digestion." She'd been afraid of something like this when Twee had broached the idea of her "coming out" party. As a stockbroker she'd worked with a few scions of Denver society—enough to be aware of the awkwardness when business and blue blood mixed. And her blood was of a decidedly reddish cast. A few of the Old Money types still existed, but increasing numbers of the younger society people were nouveau riche, and the collar color switch might hit a bit too close to home.
Before Paige could verbalize the petulance expressed on her face, Les Trethalwyn entered the fray. "So, you expect me to believe that such a feminine creature as yourself is a carpenter?" The softened burr of his Welsh accent held amusement. "I must say that you American women are astonishingly versatile."
"Finny more than most," Twee assured him. "She was the best broker I ever had. She could read my mind."
"Surely that stood you in good stead during the murder investigation." Paige angled her chin toward Les. "In addition to her other activities, Miss Aletter solved a murder." She raised a brow. "I'm surprised that you didn't go into police work as opposed to construction."
I'd love to see you in a holding cell, Finny thought. "I don't have the stomach for it," she said. "Too much grief."
"One would think that the challenge would be almost irresistible." Paige parted with another ersatz smile. "You must have enjoyed the... acclaim you received in the papers."
"No," Finny said. "I prefer to keep my good deeds to myself. As I'm sure you do."
Obstacle Course Page 1
