Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [14]
Ding.
She snatched up a cable and stuffed it into number twenty-eight. “Hello, Central.”
“Georgie, it’s Mattieleene. How old is he? What does he look like? You have met him, haven’t you?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”
He tried to open one of the drawers, but it was locked. With a great deal of satisfaction, she smoothed her skirt beneath her and adjusted herself in her chair.
“Well?” Mattieleene asked.
“He’s big and he’s grouchy.”
He pierced her with his gaze.
She shifted, facing forward. She could still see him, but only in her peripheral vision.
“Never say so!” Mattieleene moaned. “Is he old?”
“Very old.”
He jiggled the second and third drawers. Locked.
“Is he ugly?”
“Long in tooth and raised on sour milk.”
Balling his fists, he placed them on the desktop and leaned against it. The fabric of his sleeves tightened around his upper arms.
“Oh, crumbs.” Mattieleene sounded near tears. “Why couldn’t they have sent a man with a little fur on his brisket?”
“Party lines, Mattieleene. Anyone can hear.” And from the crackling on the line, it was a sure bet half the town was listening in. “I’m going to have to let you go now. We’ll talk later.” She unplugged the cable.
“Where is the key to these drawers, Miss Gail?” His tone was soft with a steely undercurrent.
She immediately thought of the woman on the train after the arrogant Ranger had demanded her coins. Georgie ran a finger along her neckline. “It’s in a safe place.”
His gaze touched her bodice. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play games with me, ma’am.”
“Or what?”
He slowly straightened. A mockingbird began running through an entire repertoire of songs, some his own, others imitations. A whiff of lemon pie cooling on someone’s windowsill touched Georgie’s nose, making her stomach growl.
Still, she held his gaze. She was the one who’d been doing all the work. She was the one with the seniority. She was the one who knew the customers. She’d be deviled if she was going to roll over and play dead simply because he was a man and she wasn’t.
“If I have to involve Mr. Marshall,” he said, “I will. But I’d rather not.”
She lifted her chin. “If you feel the need to tattle, by all means, go ahead. But to do so will require a long-distance call. Do you know how to place one?”
A tick began in his jaw.
That’s what she thought.
Ding.
She plugged in number nine. “Hello, Central.”
“Is he comin’ or not?”
“He hasn’t left yet, Mr. Lockett. I’ll remind him again.” She unplugged. “The livery is waiting.”
Reaching up, he slid his fingers across the lip of the kitchen doorframe. Had he not believed the key was tucked inside her bodice? It wasn’t, but he didn’t know that.
So long as he didn’t look into her bedroom—which of course he wouldn’t—then all was safe. But the moment he left, she’d retrieve it off her washstand, where it sat in plain sight.
He tipped up the desk chair, looking beneath its seat.
Ding.
“Hello, Central.”
“Do you know where the doc is? Little Shirley has taken ill.”
Georgie checked the doctor’s schedule. “He’s at the Shultes’, the Zientiks’, or somewhere in between. He’s expected to be back by three.”
“Would you have him call me when he returns?”
“Of course. Tell Shirley I hope she feels better.”
Mr. Palmer had moved to her bookshelves, making no pretense of doing anything other than snooping. The key would certainly not be hidden inside any of the volumes, yet he thumbed through one book after the other.
“Mr. Palmer, the livery—”
Ding.
Sighing, she plugged into line seventeen. “Hello, Central.” At Mrs. Dobbing’s request, Georgie rang and connected her to Mrs. Folschinski. “Go ahead, please.”
Mr. Palmer held up her Nellie Bly board game. “What the deuce is this?”
“It is personal property, Mr. Palmer. Property you do not have permission to rifle through. This may be the headquarters of SWT&T here in Brenham, but it is also my home, and I would ask you to respect my