Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [76]
Silence mantled the room as everyone went very still—fingernails, traffic, pens, and order forms forgotten.
Chloe looked at Ralph. “Very few interpreters could wear these boots all day. The style is all wrong for immigrant farm women, anyway. And—” she flipped the catalog over to double-check the source—“it is extremely unlikely that boots offered by a company that caters to theatrical productions would stand up to the wear and tear of our gravel roads.” She sat back in her chair, smiling demurely as satisfaction briskly swept away the gray fog in her mind. So there, Ralph Petty, she thought. You have absolutely no power over me.
A phone ringing from the anteroom cut the stunned silence. The receptionist’s voice drifted into Ralph’s office: “Old World Wisconsin. Yes, ma’am, we’re open from ten to five on weekends.”
Ralph’s nostrils flared. Ignoring Chloe, he pinned Byron with another glare. “I expect you to consider these boots, Mr. Cooke.”
“I will,” Byron said quickly.
When the meeting adjourned, Chloe left the room at the back of the pack. No one lingered to chat in the kitchen. They all think I’m nuts, Chloe thought. They were probably right. She hardly recognized herself anymore. Old Chloe would never have told the truth to an administrator. Old Chloe had taken a lot of crap, all in the guise of getting good grades, keeping good jobs, making sure she had health insurance and a savings account and a circle of friends.
Well, she was different now. And maybe that was OK. Once she’d hit the bottom of her proverbial well, and wallowed about in filthy black muck for a while, perceptions changed. Old priorities didn’t matter. Telling off Petty? It hadn’t felt scary at all. New Chloe wasn’t inclined to waste any energy putting up with crap. She didn’t know how long this new sense of abandon would last. But it was kinda fun.
By the time Chloe reached the small parking lot, most of her colleagues were already spewing gravel as they roared away. Byron stood by his car. “You got time for lunch?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Get in. I’ll drive.”
Fifteen minutes later a waitress thumped plastic tumblers of water in front of them at Sasso’s. “You know what you want?” she asked.
“I want a grilled cheese sandwich,” Chloe said. “On wheat, not white. And do you have any real cheese?”
“Real cheese?” The waitress looked confused.
“Mozzarella. Provolone. Anything that doesn’t come wrapped in plastic with the words ‘cheese food’ on the label.”
“We’ve got Swiss for the Swiss-burgers.”
Swiss. Of course. “That’ll do nicely.” Chloe said. While Byron vacillated between a baconburger and a baconburger with cheese, she wondered what Markus was doing, right that moment. Did he ever think of her at all? How would he feel if he knew that she had stumbled over a bloody corpse the day before?
When their order was complete, Byron leaned back in his chair and eyed Chloe. “So. What the hell happened back there?”
“You mean with Petty?” It suddenly occurred to Chloe that she may have antagonized more than the site director. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re pissed again. Look, I realize I probably shouldn’t have jumped into your business like that, but—”
“No, it’s OK,” Byron said. “But—why did you do it?”
“Because Ralph Petty is an oxen’s ass. Those boots were ridiculous. I didn’t want the interpreters to pay the price.”
“They would have gone ballistic,” Byron agreed gloomily. He pulled off his little wire-rimmed glasses, fished a tissue from his pocket, and wiped them off. “We don’t provide shoes. It’s just too expensive. But if we could, it wouldn’t be those fakey white Victorian things.”
“Well, I’m not sure that me speaking up did any good.”
“Are you kidding?” Byron blinked at her, put his glasses back on, and blinked again. “I expected Ralph to grab the phone and place the order then and there, sizes be damned. Instead I got left with nothing more than a command to consider the stupid things. Major victory.”
The waitress returned with their plates. Chloe’s sandwich looked perfect: toasted a golden brown