by K. K. Beck
The blond man with the hazel eyes cleared his throat. “I am a Swiss. I have a gun in my closet,” he said. “Mr. Kessler did, too. It’s the law. But this doesn’t happen to us.”
After that she spent a few days getting her report together for the board. She would attach the letter the Hunters had written her, thanking her for finding out who had killed their daughter and helping them learn about her last months. Jane had the feeling the board would go for this case, release some of Uncle Harold’s fortune and keep her out of the Fountain Room or its ilk for quite a while; but she didn’t have a sense of triumph. The memory of Gunther Kessler dying in that miserable motel room overwhelmed everything else.
Jane had a few months before Curtis Jeffers and Don Putnam came to trial. She was to be a witness in both cases. She thought she’d have enough time to give Gunther’s case one last try, even though it would mean one more gasp out of her Visa card.
The agent in charge of the case was very helpful. He arranged for her to stay in a large old house in Wimbledon, outside London, and lined up everything with the same precision Gunther would have brought to the task.
When Amanda Braithwaite arrived for dinner, huffing and puffing from her walk from the tube station, everything was ready. Jane started by plying her guest with an incredibly stiff gin and tonic.
“Wasn’t it nice of my friends to lend me their house,” she said, as Amanda browsed around, examining knickknacks with an appraiser’s eye.
The two women sat on facing puffy sofas in a living room that overlooked a nice little English garden. Now that it was early spring, the forsythia were blooming.
“Jolly decent of you to have me round,” said Amanda, sounding uncharacteristically humble. “After I lost the account, the rats all deserted the sinking ship. Haven’t heard a damn thing from any of those fish people. Of course, the worst of it was I lost my job at the agency as well. Sniveling little gits that run the place have no understanding of the terrible problems I faced. I’ve a mind to emigrate. Go somewhere where they understand marketing.”
“You’d be a mad success in America,” said Jane. “I think Britain may be too confining for you.”
“This country’s going back to the dogs,” Amanda said. “I can see myself in a more freewheeling atmosphere.” She knocked back some more gin. “Somewhere where they reward spirit and gumption.”
Jane leaned forward. “How about another drink. Dinner won’t be ready for another half hour.” Dinner was a collection of prepared entrées from Marks and Spencers that Jane would give a quick blast in the microwave whenever she felt like it.
“I wouldn’t say no,” said Amanda. “God knows I deserve one. Had a terrible interview today. Wrong sort of firm entirely. An insultingly low salary. I just marched right out.”
“I’ll tell you how someone could make a lot of money in the fish business today,” said Jane, freshening up Amanda’s drink with a massive belt of gin.
“How?” said Amanda.
“Well, it seems that blue salmon is a big hit,” Jane said. “Too bad there’s not much of it around.”
“Don’t mention the stuff,” said Amanda, shuddering.
Jane leaned forward confidentially. “The word is, the salmon producers are all scrambling to come up with the formula. They want to get the stuff on the market as soon as possible. A matter of years, of course, because of the growout period, but they’re very eager.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed.
Jane leaned back on the sofa cushions. “I’m trying to find out who masterminded that little operation. I could serve as a front woman, and we could clean up.”
“We?” Amanda said suspiciously.
“You know,” said Jane, “the first time I saw you was at the seafood meeting in Seattle. You wore a lovely blue dress to the salmon reception. Remember?”
“Yes,” said Amanda.
Jane gave her a girlish look. “I think that was a clever PR move. You knew that it was the threat of blue salmon that brought all those guys together. Wearing that dress was a nice psychological nudge.”
“Well, it did cross my mind that the chaps might need a subliminal reminder of their problems,” said Amanda. “Little did I know they’d turn out to be such bastards. No understanding of communication with the consumer.”
“Let me be frank,” said Jane. “I’ve already made inquiries. The salmon producers want to figure out how it was done, no questions asked. They’re willing to pay.”
“How much?” said Amanda.
“The sky’s the limit. I figure we go for a royalty on each fish,” Jane said.
“Each kilo of fish,” Amanda said eagerly. Then she said coyly, “But why are you telling me all this?”
Jane smiled. “I’m hoping very much my hunch is right. Because I’d love to do business with a sharp businesswoman like you. Let me run it past you. You had access to all those farms. You were a food technician, and presumably had some training in chemistry. And you wanted all those salmon farmers to perceive an external threat so you could nab their business. After all, you got your start during an egg scare. You decided to kick-start things with a salmon scare.”
Amanda smiled. “I’m not saying I did and I’m not saying I didn’t,” she said.
“I think you were a very clever girl,” said Jane, wagging a finger at her. “It seems a shame that others will profit by your genius.”
Amanda’s bulky body drooped in defeat. “That’s the damnedest part,” she said. “It seems jolly unfair.”
Jane clapped her hands together. “I was right,” she said. “You did dose up those fish with something. Brilliant.”
“It was pretty easy, actually,” said Amanda. “Just used regular old food coloring in high doses. Perfectly safe.” She leaned forward. “If you say I did this, I’ll deny it. I’m only telling you because I believe you really understand. It was for the good of the client.”
She leaned back. “I think we should patent the process. Then gear up with a big marketing program. Recipe development is key.” She looked over at Jane. “Before we go further, we should draw up some kind of partnership agreement.”
“Excellent,” said Jane.
“I’d like to run the whole thing from the States. Better business climate,” Amanda said. “I love New York. The energy!” She set down her drink. “Where’s the loo?” she demanded.
Jane pointed up the stairs. As soon as Amanda had left the room, she went and tapped gently on a narrow door in the hall.
It opened a crack. A man, sitting at a table with earphones on, smiled at her and pointed to a slowly revolving tape recorder. “We have it,” he said.
All through dinner, while Amanda spewed forth her grandiose plans, Jane mentally spent her twenty thousand dollars. She’d be able to get away to somewhere quiet. A crofter’s cottage in the Shetlands appealed to her immensely. Right now she was exhausted, but after a while, she knew, she’d be up for another case.
