Robert Asprin's Dragons Run

by Nye, Jody Lynn

  Val ran down the list. She found her college, Griffen’s college, and many other familiar universities, as well as some entries that sounded more like retail businesses.

  “Okay,” she said, flipping back to page one. She was dismayed by the endless columns of figures, but she refused to allow him to see how nervous she was. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re going over the expenses versus profit. Materials, salaries, office expenses, shipping, volume discounts, and so on.” Henry produced a large calculator and a scratch pad from his pocket. Val was always amazed how much stuff he managed to carry without ruining the lines of his clothing. She couldn’t hide a credit card without having the outline show. “What I want you to do is to familiarize yourself with the raw materials and the products they go into.”

  With the image of a real business in her mind, Val began comparing figures in the ledger. Beside the numbers were names, cryptic abbreviations, and notations, like “17.5 h” or “300 spls.” After seeing them noted on page after page, she came to recognize the names of the seventeen employees. Pretty soon she noticed the discrepancy between the amount they were being paid.

  “What’s wrong with R. Stiller?” she asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Well, he has the same salary as about five of the others for a while, but during these pay periods, his income varies a lot.”

  “Absenteeism,” Henry said. “They earn hourly wages.”

  “Uh-huh.” Val worked in silence for a while longer. “You know, there are five suppliers of thread. Mercer and Boyes have the same note next to them sometimes.” She pointed to entries that read “50 no. 17 black,” on two different pages. Henry was right: Handling something physical made it easy to recall where things were.

  “Good!” Henry said. “PrepPro buys standard stock from both of them.”

  “Is there a volume discount? Would it make sense to get a quote for all that we need of one color?”

  “It might. It could take a little negotiation.”

  “Is fifty spools at a time a big order? Find out what their price breaks are?” Val said.

  “I can put you on the phone to them tomorrow,” Henry said.

  “Me?”

  Henry offered a bland smile in the face of her outrage.

  “Why not?” Henry asked, then clicked his tongue. “Look at the time! You had better go get ready. Marcella laid out that red suit you like. You might need a wrap. It’s going down to fifty tonight.”

  Val stood up gently. The baby had gone to sleep again. She pictured it curled up with a tiny fist in its mouth. “Thanks, Henry.”

  • • •

  Roxanne helped Val into her dress. Val sat before the mirror, feeling as if it weren’t completely her body, as the petite beautician combed her long blond hair, then applied makeup. They had had just enough time to pull Val together when Marcella leaned in the door.

  “Mr. Burns is here,” the housekeeper said. If she had been less dignified, she might have winked.

  “Thanks, Marcella,” Val said. She looked at herself in the mirror. The red suit—rose-colored, really—had a tailored, knee-length skirt under a light jacket that was pleated slightly at the sides to allow for her expanding belly. A gleaming, round pearl the size of a gumball, set in a smooth ring brooch of gold, was pinned to the left lapel. Val had picked the piece from the jewelry box that sat on her vanity table. Henry had assured her that she was entitled to borrow any piece that she liked. Melinda would be pleased if she enjoyed them. The purse, instead of being matchy-matchy, was gold leather. Her shoes were rosewood leather with a slanted gold stripe running over the instep. The label inside identified them as Stuart Weitzman. Probably five hundred bucks. She had never owned a pair of shoes that cost more than thirty.

  Fairy princess again, she thought. It’s not really real. Enjoy it while it lasts.

  “How do I look?” she asked Roxanne.

  The little woman looked up at her shyly. “Very pretty.”

  Val gave her a one-armed hug.

  “You did a great job. I’d better run.”

  • • •

  “. . . I guess I never thought about all the items you need to organize to run a business,” Val concluded. She realized she had been babbling, who knew for how long? Mike Burns smiled at her. She blushed. “Sorry to run on like that.”

  “You sound like you grasped everything admirably,” he said. “That’s great.” Val made a face. Mike looked apologetic. “Sorry. That sounded patronizing. I didn’t mean it to. I know people who have gained and lost millions who never picked up on what you learned just going over a set of books. You could be a tycoon in five years with your acumen. That’s an honest compliment.”

  Val toyed with her iced-tea glass. The maitre d’ had noticed her figure when she walked into the restaurant beside Mike. Instead of bringing them the wine list, he offered them tea or fresh-squeezed lemonade. Val saw the glance that Mike sent toward the mahogany bar that ran along one side of the dining room. He would probably have liked to have an alcoholic drink, but he insisted on having tea, too.

  “Boy, I can’t pretend any longer that I’m not showing,” Val said, as the busboy in bow tie and vest came over to top up her glass. The young man, probably about her age, smiled at her with a kind of avuncular approval she was beginning to see on a lot of faces.

  “You are one of the most attractive pregnant women I have ever seen,” Mike assured her. “Well, tell me. If you were going to open a business of your own, what would it be?”

  Val dropped a couple of brown-sugar cubes into the tea and stirred it until they dissolved. The restaurant was dimly lit but not too dark. White linen tablecloths shimmered, and tiny candles in miniature hurricane lanterns on each table picked glints off the paper-thin glasses. The other diners were firelit faces with shadowy bodies. Red roses in low bowls bloomed in the middle of each table. Val inhaled the scent with pleasure.

  “I never really thought about it,” she said. “If I ran a business, I’d want it to be one where the employees enjoyed what they did, not just earned a paycheck.”

  “Not really an easy combination,” Mike said. “The high-earning jobs are usually high-pressure and cutthroat.”

  “I know. Maybe a bookstore? I love the ones in the French Quarter. Everyone who works there seems to love it.”

  “Not much potential for high revenues,” Mike said firmly. “Ask the proprietor sometime what kind of a profit he makes.”

  “I guess I’d have to think about it,” Val said. “Most of the places that I like going into are fun for me, not the people who work there.”

  “True. Like a restaurant.”

  “Or a bar. I like my job, but it’s a lot of hurry-up-and-wait. Some people don’t tip, and some of the ones who do think they’ve bought me along with their drinks.”

  Mike smiled. “Ever have to throw a customer out?”

  Val smiled back. “Not twice.”

  The waiter appeared at their side. Mike insisted that she choose for both of them. That surprised Val, but pleasantly. She combed her memory for what he had enjoyed at the fund-raising dinner and at the jazz club on their first date. The music had been so overwhelmingly good that she had concentrated on that, not her companion. She was determined not to make that mistake again. He had eaten red meat without complaint. Rack of lamb was listed as a special. That sounded good to her, too. The waiter listened approvingly and departed on silent feet.

  “How’d you know I love lamb?” Mike asked.

  “I guessed,” Val admitted.

  “Good guess. So, I know New Orleans is full of good restaurants. Where do you eat when you have the chance?”

  The food in the restaurant was as good as the ambience. Val savored each bite, but she enjoyed Mike’s company even more. He drew her out about her family, her favorite music, dreams, and aspirations. He list
ened closely to her, his deep blue eyes fixed on hers. Val was flattered that such a handsome and accomplished man would be interested in her. He didn’t push her to be alone with him or make improper suggestions. Val thought it might have been nice if he had. She missed Gris-gris. It had been over a month since she had been with a man. Her uterus might be occupied, but the rest of her body wasn’t. His hand, strong but gentle under her forearm as he helped her out of her chair, set her nerves wondering what it would feel like on other parts of her skin.

  She wondered what he would say if she told him what she was thinking.

  Twenty-three

  “I could have eaten three of those chocolate-mousse things,” Mike said, as they waited in line to pick up their wraps at the coat-check window. “Good thing I didn’t. I might have fallen asleep behind the wheel.”

  Val eyed him with mock alarm. “Should I drive back?”

  “No, I’m under the legal limit for chocolate. Sometime when you feel like real indulgence, my secretary said she visited a place about six miles from here that serves a chocolate buffet she loved.”

  “Sounds great,” Val said. “As long as you don’t call me a ‘gour-moo’ again. In my condition, that sounds like an insult.”

  Mike pleaded innocence. “It’s not a judgment, I swear. It’s a classification. It just means you like milk chocolate. Since you haven’t read Chocolate, the Consuming Passion, I’ll find you a copy.”

  Behind the wooden half door, a small Asian-looking woman in a vest and bow tie accepted the hexagonal plastic claim check and a folded bill from Mike. In moments, she brought out the correct hanger with his coat and Val’s pashmina hanging from it. She handed Mike his jacket but came out of the cloakroom to help Val on with her shawl.

  “Thanks,” Val said, pulling the soft folds tighter over her shoulders. She felt something crisp in her palm. As Mike swung his coat around, she peeped into her hand. A note, folded small, was hidden there. Val frowned, but the woman gave her an urgent look of entreaty. Val shoved it into her purse and let Mike take her arm. They went out into the chilly night air.

  Who was that woman, and why did she need to pass Val a message? Val was certain she was a stranger. Was there something about her date that she needed to know? Was Mike a known lecher or something more sinister? She couldn’t look at the note without his seeing it. Mike respected her silence as they rode back to the house.

  He ran around to help her out of the car and escorted her up the front steps.

  “You’re probably pretty tired,” he said. “May I call you tomorrow?”

  Val pulled herself out of her fog to smile at him.

  “I’d like that,” she said. “Sorry to flake out on you there.”

  “No problem,” he said. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I really enjoyed the evening.”

  Val started to ask him about the coat-check girl, when the door opened, and Marcella peered out at them.

  “Me, too,” Val said. She returned the peck and hurried inside. The austere housekeeper took the shawl from her shoulders.

  “Mrs. Wurmley called an hour ago. She wanted to know where you were. Would you like to speak to her?” Marcella asked, leading her up the double staircase toward her room.

  “Sure,” Val said, suddenly weary.

  “I will put the call through to your room.”

  “Thanks.”

  Val trudged up the steps, no longer feeling like Cinderella but an actor in some weird, avant-garde drama. She realized once again that she had forgotten to look at the license plates while they were driving. She still didn’t really know where she was. Henry always gave her a supercilious glance when she asked, and none of the others even did that much. It wasn’t as if she could run off. There was only a ten-dollar bill and some change in her wallet. She didn’t have her credit card with her; it was inside a package of frozen spinach in her refrigerator at home. She gave Griffen credit for one “I told you so.” Not that she felt as if she were in prison, but she felt under constant scrutiny. She hated being judged. Mike was the only one who didn’t seem to be evaluating her all the time, but now she wondered what she had missed figuring out about him.

  The phone rang even before she closed the door. Val picked it up. The strident voice blared in her ear.

  “Valerie? How are you feeling? Are you keeping your salt intake down? You don’t want to risk pre-eclampsia.”

  “I had rack of lamb tonight. It was divine,” Val countered.

  “At Benoit’s? That is the best—organically raised, homegrown rosemary. Good choice. Listen, Valerie, have you given up on a yellow nursery? I found an adorable purple quilt for the crib.”

  “Fine,” Val said. “That would be nice.”

  “So you’re going with purple?”

  “No. I still like yellow.”

  “But it will clash!”

  “The baby won’t care. I certainly don’t. By the time he’s old enough to notice, he’ll hate everything I ever picked out anyway. His room will end up papered in rock posters and skateboard decals.”

  “His? Is it a boy?” Melinda demanded.

  Val groaned. She sat down and peeled off the Weitzmans. Her feet were ridged with red lines where the straps had crossed them. She wiggled her toes.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  Her dismissive tone finally got through to the older woman. “Whatever. So, did you have a nice time with Michael Burns?”

  Val felt a resurgence of the pleasure of the evening. “Yes, I did.”

  “He’s a very nice man. He has a great future, and his family is very wealthy.”

  Val looked at the receiver, shocked. “Melinda, are you trying to fix me up with him?”

  “Why not? You’re a great catch. I could tell he liked you from the first moment he spoke to you. He respects you. He’d be a fabulous mate for you. Almost your equal.”

  She felt her heart sink into her feet.

  “Are you saying he’s a dragon, too?” she demanded.

  “Of course! So were most of the single men who were at the party. I thought you would like to meet some men of your own class—well, almost. You outrank all of them, but each of them has his good points. Michael is my cousin. A good boy. He has excellent prospects. Since you don’t want to continue with my son. I’ll admit Nathaniel likes things his own way . . .”

  Val fumed. Nathaniel’s “own way” had been virtual rape. “I’ll pick out my own boyfriends, thanks,” she said shortly.

  “Whatever,” Melinda said again, and changed the subject. “Henry tells me you’re a quick study. I’d like you to look over some vendors for PrepPro and pick out the best prospects. I’ll call you tomorrow night and get your opinion.”

  “Melinda, I don’t work for you.”

  “And you have so much else to do in the meantime? I would appreciate your input. And you might learn something. How bad could that be?”

  “All right! I’ll take a look at them. Melinda, when can I . . . ?”

  “Thank you, sweetie. I’ll be back there in a week, and we’ll go on that shopping trip I have been promising you. You are going to adore Paris. Talk to you tomorrow. Bye!”

  Val threw the shoes against the wall. Melinda drove her crazy. She was manipulative and pushy. It took all her self-control to keep the older woman from taking over her life. She would accept only the gifts and assignments she wanted. After all, what would be so bad about learning more about business? She really didn’t want to tend bar all her life.

  Melinda’s other revelation put a whole new light on the evening. Mike Burns was a dragon? Was that what the coat-check girl was trying to warn her about? How would she know? Val couldn’t tell humans from dragons, or any of the other weird creatures that her brother had been hanging out with in the French Quarter. Until they changed, or did something magical, she didn’t know
the difference. Had the girl seen Mike do something wrong? Could he be dangerous to her?

  She dove for her purse and retrieved the folded slip of paper. Before she opened it, she padded over to her door and locked it. For good measure, she lowered the window shades. Val hated to feel so paranoid, but there was so much going on under the surface appearance of normalcy that she was overwhelmed.

  The note had been hand-printed neatly in heavy black ink, similar to the kind Mai liked to use on birthday and Christmas cards, though it didn’t look like her writing. Mai usually employed a flowing script like Western letters transposed into Chinese calligraphy. Val, an average student of the Palmer school of penmanship, had always envied her skill. Mai could have printed the note to disguise her handwriting.

  “Valerie McCandles. Request a private conversation with you tomorrow evening. If you will allow, fold this note and place it inside your window frame tonight.” The message was unsigned. The formal wording didn’t sound like Mai. Who was it from? Val was certain no one had any idea where she was. None of her friends or family had returned any of her calls, and she couldn’t put a return address on a letter since she didn’t know what it was. How strange that Henry and the others conspired to prevent her from determining her location, as if it were a trade secret.

  She vowed not to let that last piece of information remain unknown any longer. The next day she was going to demand answers. In the meantime, she wondered who wanted a “private conversation.” It might be a pretense to get close enough to attack her, but she was pretty certain she could take care of herself. If she had any trouble, she could scream for help. The mystery creeped her out somewhat, but she was intrigued as well.

  Before she went to bed, she tucked the note, folded into a tiny wad, into the wooden sash. The corner just peeped up above the frame.

  All right, whoever you are. Let’s talk.

  In the morning, the slip of paper was gone.