Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [24]
The housekeeper twisted her apron between her hands. “Please, Mrs. Steinhart, that’s one of the reasons I want to leave. Now, don’t get me wrong, Angela has always been respectful to me and even offered to help at times. I just feel that she needs—”
“You won’t have to worry about Angela much longer,” Sylvia interrupted. “I’m calling her father in a few minutes, and he’ll be home tomorrow. I’ve made the decision to have her institutionalized. It’s for her own good.”
The old housekeeper nodded dourly. Angela wasn’t the one who should be in an institution, she thought uncharitably. “I’ll tell these people you were delayed, then. And that I don’t know when you’ll be back.”
Sylvia nodded absently as she rehearsed her speech to her husband. Her doeskin shoes made squishing sounds as she waded across the waterlogged carpeting to the front room. Fixing herself a double scotch on the rocks, she downed it neatly in two rapid gulps before placing her call to London.
With a long arm she reached back, grasped the bottle, and poured herself another drink. She hated people who drank to excess, and a woman who couldn’t hold her liquor was worse. However, there was an exception to every rule.
Her call connected, and an officious assistant of some kind answered. To her fury, he refused to get Murray out of a meeting to talk to her. Sylvia improvised, threatening to pull strings and have the assistant fired.
“Or sacked, as you Brits say,” she added fiercely.
He relented and put her on hold. She fidgeted, wondering how much this was costing her. The man came back. His smooth British accent and bland politeness irritated the hell out of her.
“Yes, I’m still here. Then interrupt him! This is an emergency! What do you mean, he can’t be disturbed? If you don’t do what I say, I’m calling the nearest police station and—yes, I do mean that. Now, hurry, this is an emergency! Very well, call me back. Yes, yes, I understand. Fifteen minutes.”
Irma opened the door of the study. She was surprised to see the gentleman listening on the phone. But maybe Mrs. Steinhart deserved to be spied on. Irma had had enough. She hated lying, and it seemed that was all she’d done since coming to work for the Steinharts. First for Angela and now for Mrs. Steinhart. In Angela’s defense, the girl had never asked her to lie for her; Irma had taken it upon herself to shield her whenever she could.
“Sir,” she said coolly, “Mrs. Steinhart has been delayed and won’t be home for some time. Perhaps if you call tomorrow . . .”
Lex swiveled to face the housekeeper. “Delayed? I just heard her identify herself to someone in London on the landline for this house. Tell her we have to speak with her. It concerns Angela and it’s extremely important. I can’t tell you how important. Where is she?” he asked briskly.
No more lies, Irma thought. She’d told her last untruth for the Steinharts. This Mr. Lassiter had said it was about Angela, so maybe he was here to help the girl. God knows, somebody needed to help her because her parents never would.
“The front room, two doors down the hall,” she said, pointing the way. “I don’t care if you tell her I told you or not. It’s time someone did something for that poor girl.”
“There’s no need for me to mention it at all,” said Lex. “I heard her myself. After all, we want to help Angela. Surely she’ll take the time to talk with us. She is her mother.”
“I wouldn’t count on anything,” the housekeeper muttered as she turned on her heel and marched from the room. “If there’s one thing that lady isn’t interested in, it’s her daughter.”
“Come on, Heather.” Lex was already halfway out of the room. “We’ll have to talk fast to cover a lot of territory in the fifteen minutes until her husband calls back.”
Lex rapped smartly on the door, opening it at the same time. The tall, willowy woman in the room downed her drink and thumped the glass on the shiny surface of the desk.
“Felex Lassiter.” He introduced himself. “And this is Heather Andrews. We’re from the Timberwoods Mall and we want